


The Divine Paradox

by mej243



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bellatrix - Freeform, Damaged, Dark, Dark Hermione, F/M, Harry Potter - Freeform, Hogwarts, Ministry, Muggle Studies, Original Characters - Freeform, Out of Character, PostWar, Sad, Salem witches, Smut, Spice, Time Travel, angel - Freeform, blood sex ( but sad ), curse, dracomalfoy - Freeform, dramione - Freeform, hermionegranger - Freeform, task, toxic, toxicdraco, women with strong personalities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27979164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mej243/pseuds/mej243
Summary: When love has the ability to kill.Two years after the war, Hermione Granger returns to Hogwarts feeling lost— unsure of who she is.After being positioned as Head Girl alongside Draco Malfoy as Head Boy, things begin to fall together as they simultaneously fall apart.Draco Malfoy is angry at the world. After returning to Hogwarts with nightmares plaguing his sleep, and tasks from the Ministry piling up, an enemy becomes his most valued company.There are extremely dark themes presented in this story. If you are under the age of 18 or do not like toxic/dark undertones within fan-fiction, proceed with caution.-self-harm-toxic- smut-emotional angst-mention of non-con-suicidal thoughts
Relationships: dramione
Comments: 46
Kudos: 140





	1. Chapter 1

DRACO

She's too bright, much like the sun in that way.

But she isn't like the sun in the spring, or autumn— nice, breezy, and warm.

No.

She's the sun that scorches skin. The sun that sits in the sky on a mid-summer's day, beating down with vengeance. The sun that causes wildfires. The sun that shreds every cell that fabricates your retinas if you look at it too long. The sun that burns. The worst type of sun. The sun you try to avoid.

He prefers the moon.

But he likes pain. He deserves pain.

And— fuck if she still isn't the damned sun, and fuck— if she isn't fucking golden. Bright to the point that your eyes advert to her when she walks in a room, nose always in the air or in a fucking book. Bright to the point that just one look could spark the life back to all of the trees and flowers in the dead of winter in as far as the eye could see.

He used to watch her in the library, they both spent an obscene amount of time in there. She would always tie her frizzy hair back with a black velvet ribbon when she got too immersed in whatever she was reading. He could never quite decipher whether he wanted to strangle her with that bloody ribbon, or fucking tie her hands up to his canopied four-poster and shag her senseless.

Infuriating to the point of hatred. Yes, he hates her. He hates her because he's supposed to. Because her blood is putrid.

He hates that he knows she takes three teaspoons of honey in her tea. He hates that he knows she sometimes prefers to eat dessert before her meal. He hates that he knows that her tongue sticks slack out of her mouth when she's focused on writing. He hates it because he doesn't understand. He hates it because he hates her.

But every fucking time he closes his eyes he sees her. Lying helpless on the ground in the drawing room of his very own home. Gnashing screams leaving her heart shaped mouth, imprinting in his mind, making reappearances in his nightmares. It is the one thing his mind won't let him occlude, won't let him file it away in a little box like the rest of his demons.

He hates her for that too. He hates her for that because up to that point of the war he was fine. He was fine letting the darkness drag him under, let him drift away with the current. It would have been much less painful that way—to let it consume him.

It wasn't until her pools of topaz and amber locked with his pools of silver and sapphire lying there on the stone floors that he felt any sort of remorse for the things that he had done. It was like an avalanche, crashing down on him all at once. Smothering. She was asking for help, begging with her eyes. She saw something in him that nobody else did— a merit for redemption.

And he just stood there. Petrified, watching her writhe under Bellatrix's searing wand, but still letting the darkness take over his conscious. Glued to the floor.

Now there's a raised scar on the golden skin of her forearm that reads: mudblood. Images of it often appears in his nightmares. Haunting him like a ghost of his past.

He blames himself.

Now he's what people would consider damaged goods. Unfixable.

A broken boy.

A Coward.

Nothing.

But fuck he was so angry. So fucking angry at the fucking world. Still so fucking angry. He just wanted somebody, just one person to care enough to pull him out, tell him his worth wasn't defined by being Voldemort's chosen gem.

He was so close to letting her be just that, laying there on the stone cold floor; but the reality of that scenario, letting her be his savior, would end with him dragging the ever so perfect Hermione Granger to the pits of hell along with him.

There is another part of him, however, that craves just that. A darker part of him. Dragging her down with him. Ruining her. Burning everything around her, until there's nowhere else for her to run and hide. Breaking her. It would be a beautiful thing, an absolute honor, to be the one to pour black ink on her golden angel wings.

He blames his father for that mindset.

His father was a very dignified man. He used to look up to him, wanted to be just like him. He liked that his beliefs never wavered, solid. Now though? He views him as a coward. His breath didn't even stray from a normal rhythm when the Ministry had sent Aurors to the manor to seize him to Azkaban a few months after the war. Lucius deserves to rot with the dementors, that he was certain.

His father was ever so concerned with the Malfoy bloodline staying pure, so much so that he has been making Draco create a list of names with potential wives since the ripe age of eleven. It wasn't until his first Christmas home when Hermione Granger's name was at the very top of the list in bold lettering that he fully comprehended what keeping the bloodline pure fully entailed. It was a huge ordeal, family meetings, and punishments were doled out. Lucius was furious, Bellatrix taunted him, and his mother just held a look of pure concern on her face the whole Christmas break. It's also the first time his father hit him, inflicted pain purposefully, leaving a handprint across his face that turned into an ugly yellow bruise that he glamoured weeks after in order to hide the lesion from his mother. So he made himself hate her, treated her like fucking scum. Calling her a mudblood every chance he got. It was more of a reminder to himself of what she was, what she is, unworthy. Reminding himself to not get too distracted by halo of sunlight that surrounded her frizzy head.

His mother though? She's grace. He'd always been so confused as to how she ended up marrying his father. Sure, she was a pure-blood, but she just seemed like a lighthouse among darkness in the mess of it all.

After the war, his mother had instructed the house elves to serve meals in a dining hall on the complete opposing end of the manor, the drawing room doors stayed under lock and key. Nobody knew why, but Draco felt like there was a mutual understanding among himself and his mother. She knows that night had somehow broken her son. Broken him past repair.

So, yes, he does hate Hermione Granger. He hates her because he'll never have her. He hates her because she gives him something to feel guilt over, guilt that has been eating away at him for two years. He hates her because she's too perfect, and her only fault is her fucking filthy blood. He hates her because he doesn't deserve her. He simply just fucking hates her.

He always thought that if he hadn't scribbled her fucking name on that parchment listing names of potential brides, maybe Bellatrix wouldn't have made her a direct target during the war.

And it has been nearly two years. Two fucking years since he's seen the war heroine, not counting the countless paper articles discussing her every move, and he fucking hates those too.

HERMIONE

Curiosity.

A strong desire to learn or know something.

She'd often times heard her mother claim that her curiosity would ultimately be the death of her.

And Draco Malfoy is a riddle that she finds impossible to solve.

She's fine. She keeps telling herself that over and over again. Fine. Perfectly fine.

When people ask how she is? Fine.

She wasn't fine. She isn't fine.

Every time she closes her eyes at night to rest, there's a myriad on the back of her eyelids of jagged teeth, chandeliers, searing wands, and Draco Malfoy's eyes. Just standing there, eyes boring into her while she lay helpless on the ground, relishing in her pain. She often jokes to herself that he enjoyed the show so much he would drag a winged-back chair right to the spot her blood stained the manor's drawing room floor, and drink his afternoon tea.

She would try to forget it, forget his eyes. Erase her mind. She has read an array of books on Occlumency, but could never successfully tuck the memories away. Every time she tried there was a searing pain in the scars that stained her forearm, it would slice open like it was a fresh wound; like Bellatrix still had the fiery tip of her wand searing into her flesh. It's almost like her brain is working against her, like it's punishing her for something— and it's taking everything in her; ever cell that fabricates her existence, to fight darkness from consuming her conscious.

But that's the thing about Malfoy— he's a Occlumens; and a very skilled one at that. She could always tell he was; nobody could be that bloody cold without the ability to file away emotions left and right.

She envies him for it. She'd do just about anything to do away with the horrid memories and just enjoy her last year at Hogwarts— enjoy the rest of her life.

Two years. It had been two years since she had stepped foot in the corridors. She was a completely different person. She doesn't feel that same fire in her that everybody always talks about, the fire that she used to feel.

She often wondered if grief had an expiration date. The school had taken a two year leave, naming it a Grieving Pause. Two years surely wasn't long enough to grieve a war as cold and violent as the one that took over those grounds, she's very certain on that. She felt as if she would forever be stuck in the third stage of the grieving cycle, depression.

Depression. Her chest feels hollow most of the time, yet breaking down by the weight of the world all at the same time. It was getting fucking exhausting.

She feels lost— like she doesn't know who she is anymore.

Dark. Shadowed.

She's just— incredibly ready to finally have a year of peace at Hogwarts. Ready to spend the two semesters with her nose buried in a book for most of her free time.

Harry had decided to not return for his last year, beginning his Auror training early. She's very proud of him, however, she would miss his company dearly. He had promised monthly visits to The Three Broomsticks, giving her something to look forward to.

She does, however, have— Ron.

Ron. The Ron that broke her heart. The Ron that stole her first kiss and then blamed it on the trauma in the moment. The Ron that has dealt with his demons by gaining about ten pounds of muscle, and shagging everyone with a bloody heartbeat.

The thing is, she was only heartbroken for a month. After a month's time she realized that she and Ron would ultimately end in utter turmoil.

She was the sun, so was he.

She was fire, so was he.

She was a lion, so was he.

They are both too warm. Their warmths would combine and cause a collision of fires to burn inside of them. They would clash. Destined to fail from the beginning.

Better as friends.

She doesn't know if she simply told herself this to move on, or if it were true.

Nevertheless, the tabloids took their brief romance and ran to the hills with it. Articles upon articles about their 'love affair', and 'potential engagement'— etcetera.

Being Potter's Golden Girl does have it's number of perks.

Things such as: free coffee and scones when she visits coffee shops in the realms of the Wizarding society, many companies send her clothing, bookstores send her letters by owl letting her know she could come by and take any lot of books she desires.

It was rather astonishing to have a name in the Wizarding world, and she ate it up like it was cake on a golden platter.

However, there were still parts that were not so pleasurable. Paparazzi, Rita Skeeter— the cameras and microphones always in her face asking questions upon questions. Fuck— it's exhausting seeing your face in the papers repeatedly. She quickly figured out fame isn't all it's chalked up to be.

The papers describe her as an angel.

An angel with a halo of fire— their weaponed war angel.

People constantly send drawings, paintings, and there was once a life size cutout of her with golden wings and a fiery halo.

A normal girl would eat it up, but it was just a constant reminder that there is no fire left in her— not even a spark. She's burnt out. The war has taken a blanket of ice and placed it right over her ignited flame.

The naive, frizzy headed girl that walked into those large, wooden doors nearly a decade ago is dead. She no longer believes in happy endings, she just simply believes in moving forward, going through the motions of life until death.

She's nineteen now. A woman. An adult. Her childhood has been brushed under a rug, along with the rest of her.

She deserves good things, and that's the reason she's somewhat thankful for Harry's absence.

She loves him, but darkness follows him around on a leash— and she was always there to ease the blow for him in the past.

She just wants peace. Serenity. Books, coffee and pastries. Books, coffee and pastries.

And this year, was her year. It is her year.

Finally.


	2. Chapter 2

HERMIONE

Everything is the exact same as she remembers. It feels suffocating— almost smothering. Tall ceilings, stone flooring, lanterns littering the walls causing silhouettes to dance upon the corridor's dark stone, something she once thought was beautiful, now as haunting.

Everything was the same—except herself.

No, she was far different.

Headmistress McGonagall had requested her for a meeting in her office before the traditional welcome back dinner held in the Great Hall. She's trudging through the corridors, letting her shoes slap the ground, the echoing sound giving her something to focus on, something to settle her nerves.

The Headmistress is standing outside of the entrance waiting for her arrival at the top of the stairs, with a half-welcoming smile on her face. No words exchanged, McGonagall just simply places her small hand on Hermione's back and guides her up, letting the gargoyle spin them upward until they reach the opening that leads into the rounded office.

Once inside, Hermione immediately notices subtle changes. McGonagall has decorated the place with a much more feminine undertone, throw pillows littering the seating areas, two maroon and gold winged-back chairs sit in front of the large oak desk for visiting students to have a place to get comfortable. The paintings were all the same, hung on the wall in an orderly fashion, but now— there was one of Dumbledore in all of his glory. Hermione feels her heart wrench and digs her fingernails into her palm to keep from letting the emotion paint her face. Just another agonizing reminder of the war.

"Sit, sit, child," McGonagall says in a hushed tone, motioning to one of the large chairs that sits in front of her desk.

Once seated, she spends a few moments awkwardly trying to decide how to not look ill-mannered, crossing and uncrossing her legs a few times, hands clasped and then unclasped because they're too clammy, fingers running through her hair. She's nervous. She's nervous because she doesn't know why she's here, and she hates not knowing things.

The Headmistress uses her wand to pour tea into a teacup, the steam spiraling out of the spout. She levitates it through the air, Hermione reaches out willingly to grasp the tea, thankful to be given something to occupy her hands. She quickly adds three teaspoons of honey, stirring, watching the honey melt into the steaming liquid with an attentive stare. She feels awkward as the only noise in the room is the clanking of her spoon on glass, and McGonagall, she just watches Hermione with careful eyes, focusing on her fingernails which are painted a dark shade of crimson. Once finished preparing her tea, she sits back, deciding crossing her legs at her ankles is the most appropriate position for the occasion. She gives the Headmistress a knowing smile, letting her know she's prepared for whatever information she is going to throw at her.

McGonagall clears her throat, "Yes, Miss Granger, I have some good news," she smiles, pouring herself a cup of tea with a tilt of her wand, "but I fear I may bear some rather unfortunate news as well."

Of course there's bad news.

There's always bad news.

"Good news first?" she voices feebly, her finger nervously tapping on the glass of the teacup at an alarming pace, "Please?"

She feels anxiety swell in her chest.

"Uh— yes, Miss Granger, of course," she replies, taking a long swig of the tea, eyeing Hermione over the rim, "you see Miss Granger, I have decided to place you in the position of Head Girl—"

She quickly interrupts, something she would normally never do to a superior, "Um— I am flattered really— but with the press on my tail I would like to just lay low this year— you see this year is my last year and—"

McGonagall holds her hand out, shutting Hermione up immediately, "Miss Granger, you and I both know if anybody deserves to wear that badge, it's you."

A lingering silence follows.

Hermione feels her face flush crimson. She admires her former professor to a great extent, it feels good to hear that she still sees something in her, but it isn't enough, "I'm not so sure, Headmistress. You see? I had really planned to just focus on my studies this year," she says, nervously running her hand up and down her tights, keeping her eyes focused on her lap, letting the friction of her hand on her tights keep her heart rate at an even pace.

"Pish posh, Miss Granger, you of all people would be able to balance such a thing, plus— prefects really do all of the work," she says, winking with a smirk painted across her features.

Hermione flashes a weak smile, choosing to sip her tea in place of responding. The air feels thick, "There are plenty of other deserving women, Headmistress— please just reconsider."

The Headmistress purses her lips, clasping her hands on the desk, clearly in annoyance to Hermione's insubordination, "Have you let the war deprive you of your fire, Miss Granger? I surely hope not. Need I remind you of your potential? You are full of it, so much fire it is begging to burst at your seams. Head Girl is a great responsibility and will look rather charming on an application, wouldn't you agree?" she says, her voice full of exasperation.

She sucks in her bottom lip, biting down biting until she feels pain. She knows McGonagall is right, Head Girl is merely conducting meetings for the prefects, and it would be a nice addition to her applications, she needed something other than Potter's Golden Girl and perfect grades to place a high ranking job at the Ministry,"Right, then— and the bad news?," she says, leaning back, letting her spine conform to the chair, not really caring that it's considered improper posture.

A flash of victory crosses the headmistress's amiable face, but it fades just as soon as it appeared, "Yes— well, as you know, the Ministry will sometimes dole out great responsibilities to those who prove themselves merit to redemption— in certain cases?"

Hermione nods slowly, confused on where the conversation is heading, finger still tapping at the glass at an alarming rate.

"Right well—you see Mr. Malfoy is quite intelligent—um, Draco—"

Her throat completely closes, she feels her fingernails dig into the side of her thigh.

"No," she says it with a tone of voice that speaks finality, interrupting whatever McGonagall was going to continue with.

"Miss Granger, if you keep interrupting me we will be sitting here until dawn! Now— where was I?— Right," she says, straightening her back as to show a sort of dominance, "Mr. Malfoy was granted a sort of probation during his trial, and you see— the responsibility they decided upon was the position of Head Boy."

It takes every single fiber of her being to just simply nod, she feels blood pool in her mouth from biting down on her tongue so roughly.

"However, Miss Granger, there is— a sort of— there's a sort of catch," she says, giving Hermione the sort of eyes that let her know whatever information is about to leave her lips will not be pleasant, "with the sudden influx of students, and the returning combined, I am afraid the normal Head Boy and Head Girl dorms are going to be occupied."

Hermione stays silent, afraid of what she'll say if she lets go of the death grip she has on her lip. She lets her eyes fall closed, swallowing the lumped that had lodged its way into her throat.

"There are living quarters that are normally used for professors, but seeing as yourself and Mr. Malfoy are now adults we will be placing you two in there," she says, shuffling papers around on her desk in a nervous way, "it resembles a flat, you two would hardly see each other— I assure you. There are separate bedrooms on either end, a shared common room and-"

"It makes too much sense doesn't it? Me to get roomed with a former Death Eater, it's almost like a welcoming sign for these things are tattooed on my forehead!" she says, standing up out of the chair, causing the teacup that sat in her lap to splatter on the ground, shooting in all directions, "I will not be Malfoy's babysitter!"

The Headmistress' eyes grow twice in size, "Miss Granger, I beg your pardon," she says, banishing the broken teacup with a swish of her wand, "Please, retake your seat."

Hermione follows instruction, only because her legs feel identical to jelly, "Apologies, Headmistress," she monotones in reply.

"I am trusting you with this, Miss Granger. One false move and Mr. Malfoy is sent to Azkaban, and I believe you and I both know that boy does not deserve that fate," she says, narrowing her eyes into Hermione's.

Hermione hates that she agrees, absolutely hates it. She feels tears prick at the inner base of her eyes.

"I assure you that you will hardly know he is present, he has been rather reserved when speaking to him," she huffs, "there is also another lavatory down the hall from the living quarters, use it if you will."

Hermione simply nods— this time because she isn't sure what to say for what seems like the first time in her life.

She makes her way down the large corridor, feeling much less composed than she did an hour ago. She stops in front of arched doors that lead into the Great Hall, and uses a swish of her want to slam them open, not caring that hundreds of conversations halt and twice as many eyes fall onto her.

Her eyes, however, immediately fall to Ron and Ginny's fiery locks, thankful they had saved her a seat in-between them.

DRACO

The train ride to Hogwarts has always been something Draco looked forward to, but the past few have been— dreaded.

Upon arrival, the Thestrals marched the carriages to the gates of the castle. It was rather depressing to witness many more of the students who couldn't see the gangly creatures before— see them now. You could hear them snickering and gasping, discussing their post-apocalyptic appearance.

That's what war does— what witnessing death does, it makes you see things you didn't see before.

But the castle is the exact same.

He doesn't know why but he expected some sort of difference, some change to make it all seem like it never happened.

The cold floors where he had caught glimpses of bodies lined up in rows is still the same. All the same.

A reminder that it happened.

He feels his heart drop to his stomach, beating rapidly in his ears as he stands in the crowd of eager students.

He's taking deep breaths, letting his chest rise and fall in an even pace, trying to prevent a panic attack; something he's struggled with on and off for the past two years.

"You alright, mate?" Theo questions, hands nervously in his pockets as they stand awkward at the foyer that leads into the Great Hall.

"Does it look like I'm bloody alright, Nott?" he snaps through his teeth, drawing his eyebrows together.

Theo raises both of his hands from his pockets, shoulders rising in a defensive manner, "Sorry—" he pauses, facial expression changing from sarcastic to pity, "It is rather depressing being back, isn't it?"

Draco simply cuts his eyes in Theo's direction, in a means to get him to shut the fuck up.

Because Theo? He fought on the right side— he may feel the weight of the war but he doesn't feel the guilt. He doesn't have the worst part of himself etched into the skin of his forearm as a reminder.

They stand awkwardly for a solid half an hour before the guards remove themselves from the doorway, allowing the mass of impatient students to pile into the enormous Great Hall.

Theo and Draco evenly stride their way to the Slytherin table, seating themselves in their normal spots.

Pansy immediately finds Draco's eyes with hers, giving a kind of smile that's mostly with her eyes, "Hello, Draco— you're exactly what I'm craving," she coos, rubbing a finger across the back of his neck, the sharp of her fingernail sends a shiver down his spine.

Conversation quickly begins to climb volumes among the students; getting louder with each minute that passes. The sound echoes repeatedly off of the stone-lined walls making it almost unbearable to use your ears for anything. He just sits there, pretending to listen to Pansy discuss what parties would be occurring over the next few weeks, and Theo complaining about his stomach rumbling from hunger.

Instantaneously, the doors to the Great Hall that had been shut, slam open with a loud disturbance, and the room falls completely silent.

Hermione Granger comes strutting in, arms hugged across her chest. The whole room turns to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that caused the ruckus. The silence in the room is deafening, the only sound is her shoes slapping the ground in a perfect rhythm, and the remanence of conversations echoing off the ceiling.

She ignores the stares, obviously very used to getting them wherever she goes, and walks toward an empty spot at the Gryffindor table in between two redheads— two Weasley's of course.

He caught a glimpse of her earlier on the train and had seen photographs in The Daily Prophet, but now that he saw all of her, he was— he didn't know what he was. Shocked.

She was taller. Slimmer. Her hair that was once unruly, was tamed, curls more defined. The espresso curls fall way past her chest, framing her face in a way that makes her seem older, more mature. You can see where a few pieces around her face were tinged maple, as if she had been under the rays of the sun.

But it isn't any of this that has Draco's jaw hit the floor, it was her clothing. Black. All of it. Black jumper, black skirt that's at least two inches above dress code, black thigh high tights that allow the top of her leg to be exposed with every step, black socks, black platformed shoes, and now that he was seeing her up close her nails are painted a dark red. Her black robes brush behind her in a breezy fashion that make her seem important.

Demanding attention.

The idea of Hermione Granger doing anything remotely feminine makes him physically cringe.

Because this? This Hermione Granger? She's no longer a girl— a girl to taunt, a girl to mess with. 

No.

You can see the war in her eyes, in the way she walks, even in the way she's got her wand wrapped in her fingers tucked under her armpit where her arms are crossed.

This Hermione Granger is— a woman.

It's repulsive.

He's staring, but he can't bring himself to drag his eyes away from her, she's almost moving in slow motion.

It's— hypnotizing.

She throws amber daggers in his direction, catching his eyes for a split second, forcing him to advert his toward his hands where they lay in his lap.

Pansy must have noticed his lingering stare, "She looks a-bloody-trocious," she snaps, placing her hand on his thigh, rubbing upwards, "It's near damned ridiculous how she's the one who left the war with her name on the list of heroines to look out for in the press— getting gifts of yearned for fashion from companies that used to fucking beg to work with me," her perfect brows draw together as she pulls a red lip in between her stark white teeth, "Wouldn't you agree, Draco?"

He wants to roll his eyes, but opts for nodding in agreement, "She does look ridiculous, doesn't she? God— like a fucking whore," he says, letting out a sputtered laugh, the burst of laughter from the Slytherins around him boosting his ego. He means it—but it tastes like poison rolling off of his tongue.

When his eyes find their way back over the the Gryffindor table, as they normally do, her eyes were already digging into him, an expression he couldn't quite figure out painting her face.

But fuck— if looks could kill, they'd be preparing a coffin with his name on it.


	3. Chapter 3

HERMIONE

She pushes herself through the rows of students, ignoring the hundreds of eyes latched onto her. She passes directly by him, watches as the gush of air from her strut causes the loose locks of silver hair around his face to swirl. He's just sitting there— sitting there like he isn't her bloody worst nightmare's main character, about to get a starring role in her everyday life.

She's glaring at him, he's got a look of pure confusion written on his face once he realizes she's mentally lighting him on fire, and she's enjoying every second of it.

She cuts her eyes away from him as she lowers herself onto the long bench that acts as seating for the tables in the Great Hall, a frown resting comfortably on her face. Ron and Ginny both give her looks of disconcertment. Whispers and conversations began picking back up as she takes her seat, creating a private wall of noise for the three to discuss her late arrival.

"Why the long face 'Mione?", Ron asks, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of his robe.

She inhales and exhales slowly, "McGonagall has placed me into the position of Head Girl— without my consent."

"Oh! That's great Hermione!" Ginny squeals, placing a hand on her shoulder, utter excitement laced in her voice.

She fixes Ginny with a sour expression, "Yeah. super exciting," she says sarcastically, "except I have to live with the walking nightmare that is Draco Malfoy in the process."

Ginny's excitement fades into a frown and she and Ron both advert their eyes to where Hermione's linger— on Malfoy. He's sitting in the midst of all of the Slytherins, his eyes now focus on Pansy Parkinson who is hanging off of him like an accessory, her manicured fingers laced in his hair.

"Live with him?! Live with that? How?— Why?!," Ron is basically out of his seat now as the news fully sinks in, hands waving in the air in exasperation, eyes still glued to the former death eater.

"Bloody hell, Ron— sit down! She's barely gotten a word out of her mouth," Ginny exhales, reaching across Hermione to tug Ron's shirt to yank him back down toward the bench, "I'm sure she'll answer any question you've got in that little brain of yours if you just shut your trap."

There's a pause waiting for Ron to re-situate himself, Ginny glares at him as he does so, "Continue on," Ginny says, refocusing her gaze to Hermione after he stills.

"It's part of Malfoy's probation from the Ministry to erm— to partake in duty as Head Boy," Hermione says, picking at one of her fingernails, not meeting either of their eyes now, "The dorms are full from the new and returning students that have accumulated over the last two years of intermission, so they've— placed us in one of the flats designed for faculty."

Ginny's eyes widen, and Ron just looks like he's eaten a sour lemon drop, face twisted awry.

"So they are going to ruin your last year because Malfoy is unable to care for himself— bloody ridiculous if you ask me." Ron rolls his eyes, distaste clear on his tongue.

"I mean— I guess he would have gotten the position anyways— you know— if things hadn't gone so south with—"

"Yeah with that bloody fucking snake tattooed on his forearm?" Ron's shaking his head in a manner that's disapproving, "I don't care how good his marks are, he doesn't deserve that position— and you? You don't deserve to be put through that hell," he says, slamming his fist on the table, vocal cords strumming with anger.

"Right," both she and Ginny reply in unison.

Her eyes find him again, the white headed wizard. She wonders if he knows he'll be living with her for the year. Looking at him now, laughing with his fellow snakes, eyes glued on his black-headed witch, it becomes quite obvious he doesn't have a clue.

"You know," she says, a devilish grin forming on her lips, "I think the only good thing about this situation will be watching his face when he realizes he'll be spending his last year at Hogwarts living with a mudblood Gryffindor. That? That will taste like bloody victory— It'll almost be worth it, to see him suffer."

Ginny gives a crooked smile, stroking a hand through the end of Hermione's curls.

"I forget you're dark now, 'Mione," Ron says through smirking lips, "it looks rather good on you."

"I'm not dark Ronald— I'm just—different," she says, in a tone that's matter-of-factly.

"Well, it's a good different," he responds, reaching for her hand and squeezing it, in a delicate way that implies more than friends.

She was about to yank her hand away, reply with something in relation to how he missed his chance with her when he smothered her heart with his freckled hands, but Headmistress McGonagall makes her way to the podium, the tip of her wand stuck to her throat to amplify her voice, "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!"

The whole room erupts in cheer— the whole room aside from herself that is. She's in no mood to celebrate at the moment. She sits still, fidgeting hands twiddle in her lap, her eyes wander around the room and are lured by a pair of blue ones that are locked on her.

Malfoy's clearly in no mood to cheer either.

No— rather his eyes are fixated on her, eyes full of disgust, clearly in question as to why she waltzed in late to the event, glaring daggers at him when she arrived. When she first notices his gaze she flinches, it feels like ice shooting down her throat when she roughly gulps. Now— she's staring back with the same iced expression, mirroring his emotion. She can see him now, his features are sharper, shoulders more broad, hair is longer— curling over the neck of his robes, but the same snooty expression graces his facial features. A staring contest— that's what it feels like, a contest that's obvious neither want to lose. Both of their arms cross simultaneously across their chests, eyes ripping each other apart. This goes on for the remainder of McGonagall's welcoming speech— the little contest only breaks when the sorting ceremony begins, and Ginny grabs her attention by tapping a fingernail sharply on her shoulder.

She claps every time that bloody hat screams Gryffindor, sinks the few times a first year is placed in Slytherin. Watches as their face twists with fear as they feebly make their way to the table laced with green and silver.

And by the time the ceremony ends, and food appears on the tables, she's starving.

DRACO

He'd seen the articles in the papers of kisses and potential engagements, watched them pine after each other all throughout school, but something about the way he was grabbing her hand in that moment strikes a nerve. It's like a confirmation, an end all be all. They're in love.

And Ronald Weasley, although a pure-blooded wizard, is no match for Hermione Granger— at least not intellectually.

God— he bets all he talks about is quidditch and how much he lifts in the bloody weight room. Ugh— and his fucking table manners— atrocious. Granger may be a mudblood know-it-all, but she deserves a wizard that can muster fruitful conversation, and possesses at least decent manners at the fucking dining table.

He's staring at them, at her— wondering why the hell she strutted into the dining hall giving him a right nasty look. He lets his eyes travel past where their hands intertwine, up the arm of her robe meeting her side profile as she looks into Weasley's eyes, listening to whatever nonsense he was speaking.

His eyes don't leave her when the room erupts in cheer, they don't leave her when Weasley let go of her hand, and they don't leave her when she catches him glaring— in fact, her eyes meeting with his only makes him glare harder. It feels like a game— a prime tournament.

Something about the death glares she's been throwing at him shakes something inside of him. He feels almost elated, that he and Hermione Granger's relationship remains one of opposition. It feels almost normal— comfortable even, to be sitting in The Great Hall having a staring contest with the witch, like their still twelve. As if a war never took over their lives— as if everything's fine.

He wants to walk over there and ask her who the hell stuck a fucking wand up her arse. God— she's so fucking infuriating.

Once again, he's back to the strangle or shag dilemma.

It isn't until McGonagall begins the sorting ceremony that they break eye contact.

The little ceremony takes what feels like ages, he watches as first years get sorted into Slytherin, has a front row seat to their dreams of being a high and mighty Gryffindor swirl down the drain.

They’re scared, because Slytherin now has an even worse reputation, and it's quite infamously well-known among the wizarding world.

The food appears on the tables once the sorting is done, and the students devour the feast. As he's taking his last bite of soup, McGonagall scurries up, "Yes— Mr. Malfoy, if you'll meet me in my office we have a few things to discuss with Ms. Granger here—," she moves out of the way to reveal a very uninterested looking witch, standing with her ankles crossed, fidgeting with one of her fingernails.

Pansy shoots him a glare that's one of question, he just shrugs in a means to say he knows just as much as she does. He lifts himself off of the bench, and follows behind the two witches, watching as their dark robes swish behind them in unison.

Once inside the Headmistress' office, McGonagall motions to the two winged-back chairs that sit in front of her desk. He and Granger silently make their way over and sit, their synchronized footsteps being the only sound in the room. An awkward silence lingers in the air thickly as the two students wait for the Headmistress' voice to fill the void.

He rests his elbows on the arms of the chair, and feels his eyebrows squeezing together in confusion, chest tightening with anxiety.

McGonagall clears her throat which causes him to flinch, "Mr. Malfoy I'm sure you're aware that it is a part of your probation with the Ministry to assume a position of responsibility here at Hogwarts, correct?"

"Yes, Headmistress?" he feels his heart beat ringing in his ears, trying his best to not let the discomfort show on his face.

She lowers her head, looking at him over the rim of her glasses, "Right— yes, well I have decided to place you in the position of Head Boy."

Fuck.

He sucks on his teeth to keep from arguing. He wants to argue, to tell her she's out of her fucking mind if she believes he'd make a proper Head Boy, but he knows he's on thin ice with the school's faculty.

"And Ms. Granger here is Head Girl, and she's offered—," she's cut off by Granger's shrill voice.

"I did not offer a thing," Granger voices, slamming her balled fist on the arms of the chair.

McGonagall shoots a disapproving glance in the witch's direction, narrowing her eyes, "The dorms are full, even with expansions charms there are not enough room for the two of you to live within the walls of your house's dormitories."

He massages his temples with the pads of his fingers, piecing the puzzle together of where this announcement was heading.

"Yourself and Ms. Granger will have a shared living space—"

"Oh, absolutely not", he cuts in, "There must be some sort of mistake," he doesn't care that his tone of voice is harsh, he'd rather get kicked out of this fucking school than live with a bitch like Granger, "I'll simply transfigure an extra bed in one of the rooms in the Slytherin dormitory, I can't live with—"

"With what, Malfoy? A mudblood? Didn't you take anything away from the tragedy that occurred here two years ago?" Granger chimes in, her face twisting with anger.

"Now, now— you two are far too old to be playing at such foolish games," McGonagall tuts, clasping her hands on her desk, eyes traveling back and forth between the two students, "That's fine and well, Malfoy. I'm simply letting you know there is a bed for you where you can receive peace and quiet, a place to be alone. The war was not easy on the two of you," she says, giving him a look of pity.

He just stares.

The look on her face says it all— it's like she knows about the nightmares. The screaming. The panic attacks. He glances at Granger who is just sitting slouched with her arms crossed.

God— what awful fucking manners.

He hopes she doesn't know he's weak. He hopes she never finds out that it's her eyes that cause his vocal chords to shred, waking him from his slumber in pools of sweat.

It's fucking embarrassing.

The Headmistress interrupts his thoughts, "The two of you will need to host meetings throughout the year, to ensure the prefects have everything under control— going over rules and things of the like," she hands each of them a skeleton key, "and here's are the keys to the flat, don't lose them— they are irreplaceable. Magically charged— no unlocking charms will break the bolts in the door when it's locked with one of these."

"Irreplaceable?" Granger questions, reaching for the key in McGonagall's outstretched hand.

"Yes," McGonagall replies curtly, "Now, off you two. The keys will direct you to your rooms...and keep in mind you can spend as much time as you'd like in your own house's common rooms— don't let this privilege deprive you of your house pride. I don't need you two clawing each other's eyes out," she stands, moving her hands in a means to shoo them out.

He wants to say there's no need to worry about that, he would be spending majority of his time with his fellow Slytherins— as far away from Granger as possible. He chooses to simply nod in a means to avoid any more drama, and sees Granger do the same gesture in his peripheral.

They exit the office in awkward silence, and as soon as they step into the hallway, the key buzzes, directing him left. He hears Granger's do the same in her hand, but she takes a sharp right— toward the Gryffindor dormitory.

Now that he's left standing in the hallway alone, he thinks over everything that just happened—she barely spoke five words that whole encounter, an obverse scenario in contrast to how it would have gone down three years ago.

Maybe she's broken too. Maybe they do have something in common.


	4. Chapter 4

HERMIONE

There's rage brewing in the pit of her stomach.

Wicked laughter escapes her lips as she lazily stomps her way to the Gryffindor dormitory— the sound doesn't even resonate in her eardrums as her own voice because it seems foreign to her usual hilarity. The slap of her shoes on the stone floor leave the soles of her feet stinging, tingling sensations shoot up her legs as her nerves yell at her for the disturbance she's causing. She focuses on the pain to keep from crumbling to the floor into a heap of tears and broken sobs. She's laughing because she's bloody angry. She's laughing because it feels good to at least feel something— she's laughing to keep from bloody crying.

She pauses in her step when she hears a dripping sound echoing off of the ceilings, looks around only to find out it's source is from her fingernails digging inter her palm so roughly strings of blood swim through her fingers, dripping into a pool of crimson on the floor.

She whispers profanities to the emptiness, then pulls out her wand from her robes and casts a silent healing charm, watches as the skin stitches itself back together. She finds herself wishing it were that easy to mend a heart— or a mind.

She continues down the corridor, hop-skipping onto a moving staircase's landing just before it swings out of reach; lets it rotate her to the portrait hole. She weakly voices the password and pushes herself into the Gryffindor common room. Her eyes immediately fall to Ginny, Ron, and Neville seated cozy by a crackling fire. Ginny's braided hair sweeps around her face as she reads an open book that's spread flat across her cross-legged lap. Ron and Neville are playing a quiet game of wizarding chess on the rug in front of the velvet couch, and the only noises in the room are the crack of the fire, Ginny dragging her pointed finger across a page of the book as she reads, and the click of glass on glass as Neville and Ron focus on their game. They look so peaceful, she contemplates just turning around and leaving them be, not interrupting their evening— afraid that her foul mood will be contagious.

After a moments hesitation, she slowly saunters over to the three, plastering a fake look of contentedness on her face.

As the steps of her shoes break the silence of the room, Ginny looks up from her lingered concentration on the book in her lap and meets Hermione's eyes with a smile that unsuccessfully hides the concern in her eyes. Ginny slaps the palm of her hand on the red couch next to herself three times in a means to invite Hermione to replace the empty spot on the cushion. Before she even settles all the way down, Ginny grabs a book from the stack that sits crooked on the end table next to her, and shoves it toward Hermione's hands without as much as a muttered word. Hermione, on instinct, opens the book without question and settles herself comfortable into the nook of the couch where the back meets the arm, and opens the book to begin reading. The book is one that discusses Occlumency, titled: Guide to Advanced Occlumency written by Maxwell Barnett.

"Have you tried it before," Ginny questions after a moment, chewing on one of her fingernails, "Occlumency?"

The interruption from silence causes both Ron and Neville to advert their attention to the two girls on the couch, leaving chess pieces to move themselves autonomously across the smooth checkered game board on the floor.

"Uh— yes, actually I have," she says, tracing a finger along the sharp edge of the book's spine.

Ginny lets out a sigh, "Did you succeed in your attempt, or?"

"No," Hermione replies, shaking her head, "I couldn't clear my mind long enough to even fully attempt."

This felt like mud rolling off of her tongue— she hates being unsuccessful, it was even worse to admit she was unsuccessful.

Ginny reaches and grabs one of Hermione's hands in between two of hers, "I think you should try again— I believe it would really help you to forget the—"

"Forget the what? Forget what happened to me? The scars on my arm?" She interrupts, ripping up the sleeve of her jumper with the hand that was free of Ginny's grip, "I can't forget it Ginny— it's etched into me. A forever reminder of Bellatrix's fun that night at the Malfoy's Manor," she grits through her teeth.

Ginny's face tightens as she studies the raised scar that reads that derogatory word that's engraved into the skin of her forearm like an ever-permanent tattoo, "Does it ever hurt?" She asks, albeit hesitantly, taking a gentle finger and tracing along the first letter.

"No," she lies.

"Good," she jerks the finger that lingered on her scar away, "That's good news," she says, an undertone of relief staining the words.

"It bleeds sometimes, doesn't it though?" Ron chimes in, running a hand through his hair, "I see it blotting through your sleeve on occasion," Hermione's face hardens as the words escape his lips— his face draws up instantly, realizing he's overstepped his boundary.

Ginny's eyes snap to Hermione's in question.

Fuck you, Ronald.

"Uh— yeah, that's what happens when I try to occlude the memories of that night. It sort of rips open in parts, like Bellatrix's wand is making a grand reappearance in burning my flesh," she replies, keeping her eyes hooded downward, "It's quite strange," she speaks through broken laughter, trying to lighten the mood.

There is an awkward moment of silence as Ginny processes the information, she can feel Ron's concerned gaze glued to the side of her head as she fidgets with the end of a loose curl.

"I've—," Ginny clears her throat, "I have never heard of that before— have you done research? Read any books on the matter? That's a bit concerning, Hermione," Ginny snatches the book out of Hermione's lap, opening it; and scanning the pages as if there would be any information on the subject written on it's withered parchment.

"I have— yes—," she stutters, "I could never find any similar scenario in the history of the wizarding world," she snatched the book back from Ginny's grip, "but I'd rather not look into it anymore, Ginny. I'm tired of fighting— I'm fine, really," she says in a clipped tone, still giving Ginny a reassuring, close-mouth smile despite the attitude.

"You're not fine, Hermione! That's the thing. I've had to sit back and watch you grind yourself down into something hollow over the past two years!" Ginny places her hand on Hermione's thigh, "I just want you to know that it's okay to not be okay? Okay? You don't have to lie for us— we love you. We're here for you— you don't have to pretend."

Ron and Neville both bob their heads in agreement.

Ginny continues, "I just think if you could learn occlumency; and perfect it, things would get better. Us wizarding folk have the ability to hide our pain— we should take advantage of that privilege," she claims, waving her hands through the air like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Ginny, I told you I tried— I failed...hiding pain doesn't make it go away" she pleads, exasperation in her voice, "just leave it be— I'm begging you to just leave it alone," she continues, snapping the opened Occlumency book that she had snatched from Ginny's hands shut, a way to symbolize the conversation's ending.

"Have it your way then," Ginny says, crossing her arms disapprovingly, "just know i'm here if you need me."

"Me too," Ron voices.

"Me three," Neville voices.

After a moments pause, they all quietly assume their positions of reading nestled on the couch and moving chess pieces, silently comfortable in each other's company.

She doesn't even bother venturing to her room tonight. The four end up falling asleep this way in the common room, the the fire crackling making a relaxing sound that helps them drift to slumber. Ron and Neville sleep with their backs propped up on the base of the couch, Ginny and Hermione sleep with their heads at opposing ends of it, legs tangled together at the center. 

The second before her eyelids shut, she feels a wave of comfort crash in her chest. The first comfort she's felt in a very long time. She lets it drown her as she enters her slumbered state, not even waking when students bustled in and out of the common room in the late hours of the night.

DRACO

He watches as she rounds the corner, curls bouncing behind her. He stands there for a few lingering moments letting the echos of her shoes hitting the floor advert his brain from processing anything. He lets his eyes fall shut and leans back into the cold wall once the echos are out of earshot, takes ten even, deep breaths until his heart rate slows to a normal rhythm. 

He contemplates going to his new room, being alone for the evening— going straight to bed and hoping the universe decides to gift him with a night of well rest. But no— he needs something. Something— fuck, anything that will ease the ache of anxiety welled in his chest, he needs remedy, he needs the burn of liquor on his tongue or the blaze of smoke filling his lungs.

He pushes himself off of the wall, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he strides down the hallway where he watched the witch breeze away; but rather he takes a left where she took a right and heads straight for the dungeons.

He stops when he reaches the curtained wall in the depths of the school, mutters the password and steps through the stone blockade with ease.

He is met with a hazy vision of Blaise, Theo, Crabbe, and Pansy seated in a semi-circle around a crackling fireplace on the green leathered couches. Green smoke is spiraling from the group as they pass a lit pipe of fluxweed around, each taking long drags and handing it to the person on their right. The room is dimly lit, the only illumination is emitting from the fireplace and a few teakwood scented candles placed around sporadically. The dim, flickering lighting, and the burly scent of teakwood constructs the room to seem intimate in a way that feels familiar.

"Hello, Draco," Pansy smirks, smoke falling from her lips as the holds the pipe in between her teeth as she speaks, "come— sit," she coos, rubbing her palm on the empty space on the leathered couch next to her, inviting him to fill the void.

He does just that, sitting in close enough proximity that his leg causes Pansy's pleated skirt to ride up her thigh. He leans forward, letting his elbows rest on his knees, motioning with his hand for Pansy to hand the pipe to him. Instead, she does it for him, placing the hot pipe in between his open lips, running a manicured hand through the loose strands of hair at the base of his neck in a way that promised something immoral. He closes his lips around the pipe, smirking in a means to thanks her, letting his hand reach to grasp her thigh, squeezing it where her skirt brushed her skin. He sucks in, letting the stale vapor trickle down his throat— expanding his lungs with an inhale to permit as much of the mind-bending substance into his bloodstream possible. He closes his throat once the smoke has settled— confining the smoke to his core, letting the drug's fog simmer inside of him to enhance the effects.

"Ah, bloody hell get a room, why don't you?" Theo sulks, eyes locked on Draco's fingers caressing Pansy's leg, letting the palm of his hand slide down his face in an irritable fashion, "We're trying to chill out in here— not watch you two make an adult film right there on that bloody couch."

Blaise and Crabbe both raise their hands over their mouths to stifle laughter, Pansy's eyes roll to the back of her head— leaning into Draco all the more.

"Shut it, Theo," Draco snaps through his teeth, letting his hand ride farther up Pansy's thigh, bunching the skirt up farther, "don't be cold just because you don't get any."

"Calm down, boys— no need to fight over me," Pansy smirks, tracing the neckline of her opened collar with her middle finger in a way that appears sensual.

Draco passes the pipe to Blaise, and leans back into the couch, letting the effects of the fluxweed pulse through his veins, causing his muscles and his mind to drown into serenity.

Pansy leans back with him, letting her head rest on his shoulder, draping her arm across his chest, "Why did McGonagall pull you from dinner early?"

He reaches to grasp the back of the couch, "Oh— just to introduce me to hell," he laughs at his own joke, Pansy just looks up at him with confusion, obviously not getting the humor in the statement; so he continues, "McGonagall has placed me into the position of Head Boy— per a requirement of responsibility from the bloody Ministry."

"Head Boy? You? Holy hell— they clearly want this place to burn to ash all over again," Blaise chimes in, smoking puffing out from his lips with every word.

Draco rolls his eyes.

"That doesn't explain why the mudblood was with her," Pansy deadpans, "I watched the three of you leave the Great Hall together," accusation clear in her tone.

"She's Head Girl—"

"Oh— of fucking course she is," Pansy interjects, tearing herself away from Draco's chest in shock, "Fucking hell, she fucking gets everything! Maybe I should have been the one that befriended the scar-headed freak first year," she says, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Oh come on, Pans? That Granger girl is considered the brightest witch of our age— she does deserve that position, she'll keep everything smooth— Merlin knows we need it" Theo claims, "Plus, she's gotten super fit over the Grieving Pause, wouldn't you guys agree?" Theo postulates, looking around at the group to gather opinions on his statement.

Every muscle that had relaxed in Draco's body per the effect of the drug tenses up even tighter than they were before, "Fuck no— you're out of your fucking mind, mate," Draco shoots up, reaching for the pipe that had made it's way back around the semi-circle, yanking it from Pansy's hand, and sucks the smoke down his throat like it's his lifeline, "She's nothing but a snob," he claims, letting the smoke climb back up his throat.

"No, no— he's right," Blaise chimes in, "did you not see her in the Great Hall? Fuck— those thighs? And she's learned how to dress quite properly? She's definitely gotten well fit," he says, nodding in agreement with Theo.

"Well, I'm with Draco on this one— she's still the same hideous fucking maggot," Pansy seethes, admiring her manicured nails.

"Jealously doesn't flatter your complexion, Pans," Theo voices, smart-aleck undertones lacing his words together.

"Me?— Jealous? You really are out of your bloody mind," she seethes, "Anyways, what business do you lot have pining over a grimy little mudblood?" She arches a brow in an accusing manner, drawing out the last word; all while eyeing both Blaise and Theo.

The room falls silent; and Pansy's face develops a look of somebody who just won the fucking lottery— it's painted clear into her dainty features, visibly smug she's the one behind the lingering, thought invoking silence.

Theo is the one to break the icy atmosphere, by meeting Draco's eyes with question "Who are you rooming with, mate? I noticed your trunks weren't anywhere in the dorm rooms?"

Draco clears his throat awkwardly, "That's the other reason for the meeting with the um— with the Granger girl. The school has had to use the normal Head dormitories to house the influx of students so consequently— they've sorta of given us two one of the flats designed for the faculty."

Pansy's eyes double in size, "You're going to be living with her? That's— no, that's unacceptable, your father would not allow this," her hands are slicing through the air in exasperation, "No, he wouldn't stand for it! You're last year here and they're going to force you to play house with that fucking mudblood bitch?"

Draco just shrugs, slightly annoyed with Pansy's shrill voice, "My father isn't here to disapprove, now is he?"

Pansy just gives him a blank stare, lips pursed together snugly.

"Besides— the new Head dorm is suited with separate bedrooms, so it's not like I have to see her when i'm there," Draco voices nonchalantly, leaning back into the relaxed position with his back conformed to the couch.

Pansy's face is unwavering in it's irritating expression.

"Oh, come on Pansy, loosen up— we'll have a bedroom to ourselves," he eyes the witch, letting his tongue dart out of his mouth to wet his bottom lip.

Sounds of cringing disgust leave the other occupants of the room; Pansy just allows her pursed expression turn into one of seduction, "I guess I can live with that," she says in a suggestive tone, placing her elbow on his thigh, looking up at him through a thick band of lashes.

Pansy is a friend, an intimate friend that from time-to-time sleeps in his bed; and from time-to-time he shags. He didn't want this fate but ever since his family knocked Hermione Granger's name slick right off of his list of potential wives — Pansy Parkinson's replaced it at the top in large, bold lettering. He'd settle, to please his family. He'd do just about anything to never have to speak to his father again. He'd marry her, Pansy, he'd put the ring that had been passed down generations upon generations of his ancestry on her left hand— a ring that would spend eternity wishing it was on a different witch's finger.

Once the crackling of the fire dies down in the fireplace, and Theo, Blaise, and Crabbe fall into a euphoric state from the fluxweed, Pansy laces her fingers through Draco's; and pulls him to a standing position. She nods her head in the direction of the spiral staircase that leads up to the girls' dormitory, and he nods back in reply. He needs this. She leads him up the stairs, he watches in a trance as the blunt cut of her hair sways back and forth, revealing the lithe base of her neck.

They don't even make it into her room before her lips are latched onto his in urgency, he wraps his arms under her thighs lifting her in one swift motion as she wraps her long legs around his waist. He uses her back to bust the door open, quickly moving to her bed in three long strides. He throws her down, climbing on top of her, hands on each side of her head, he wastes no time before he reattaches his lips to hers. She snaps her wand out of her skirt, using it to draw the curtains around the four poster, and then a single swish casts both a silencing and contraceptive charm at the same time, all the while their lips are still glued together, tongue slipping in and out of each other's mouths in urgent anticipation. It was obvious in the way their hands were gripping into each other's flesh that they both needed this. Craved it.

Kissing Pansy is comfortable. Easy. Something he's used to— treading in calm waters.

He slides his arm under her arched back, using leverage to flip them so she's on top, only disconnecting their lips to get re-situated. He knows she likes being in control; and she knows he hates foreplay. She sits straddled on his hips as she undoes his belt, she slides her hand through his boxers and slowly pulls his cock out, beading her thumb around the head to spread the pre-cum that had accumulated. He hooks his pointer and middle finger around the hem of her knickers, and roughly yanks the lace to the side. In a singular swift motion he's in her— and it feels nice— Once again, comfortable. Easy. Something he's used to— treading calm waters. He watches as her head bobs back in pleasure as he thrusts upward into her, completely filling her repeatedly. In and out. In and out. Easy. Comfortable. In and out.

But as their torsos are grinding together in a heated rhythm— he begins to feel the build up in his lower abdomen, aching to let go— release. He feels her nails dig into his chest through his jumper. His eyes snap shut and they climax in the same second, long, soft moans escape Pansy's throat; and his clenched eyes shoot open to witness the pleasure his own cock is gifting the witch— but instead of blue eyes, black hair and porcelain skin, he's met with pools of amber, maple coils and a tawny complexion. He blinks rapidly until Pansy's face gradually reappears in his vision.

And that's the first time he's seen them outside of his nightmares that close— her eyes. Her.

Now he's fucking hallucinating visions of her? What in bloody fucking hell type of sorcery is this?

Pansy notices the falter in his emotion, "What's wrong? Was it not good? I can do better—here." She pants, placing a sweaty hand on his cheek.

"No— no, it was— it was lovely as usual," he pants, stuttering. He slides her off of him and then pushes himself from the bed to his feet, "I'll um— I'll see you around," he swiftly slides the curtain hanging from the poster shut before she can reply, he fidgets with his unbuckled belt as he slides through the cracked exit that leads into the corridor lined with rooms— clearly undergoing the effects of crashing down from fluxweed's hallucinogenic high.

He feels his heart plummet to his stomach— palms sweating, he's leaning on the cold railing as he walks down the spiral staircase to keep himself from falling to his knees. 

Why does she have to ruin everything? She's taken over his sleep schedule with the fucking nightmares? Now she's making appearances in his sex life? What's next? His fucking ability to breath? Will she take that too?

He slips through the wall from the Slytherin common room, yanking the key that lays upside down in his pocket out. He lets the vibrations guide him down corridor after corridor to the arched doorway that's nestled neatly in the corner of the school. He inserts the key, twisting until it clicks open. He hesitantly steps in, hopeful the witch decided to sleep with her ginger puppy for the night.

He immediately notices the color scheme as black and white— clean black and white checkered stone lay in patterns across the floor. The common room is a nice size, black, elegant curtains droop from a three tiered window that sits just above a credenza that's holds what's clearly a plethora of educational books. There was a white marbled hearth that lay before a grand fireplace; and a black leathered living room suite that included a couch and two chairs situated in front of it. The tall ceilings made it seem larger, less homelike. There is what appears to be a kitchenette on the wall as you enter the door on the left, elegant table and chairs grace the checkered flooring, some sort of flower arrangement sits in the center with a card that reads: "Welcome!" in a cursive penmanship. He places the key softly on the table, trying to not make noise just in case the witch had decided to sleep in her room. The bathroom is situated opposite of the kitchenette, he can see a marbled, claw-footed bathtub, and a mirrored vanity with a sink through the cracked door.

There are two doors on each side of the common room, one with Head Girl written in gold lettering, and one that reads Head Boy in the same font. He strides toward the door meant for Head Boy, clicks it open and doesn't even bother to cast a Lumos, he dives straight for the bed, exhaustion slapping him hard in the face. He tucks himself under the thick duvet, closing his eyes and zoning into the shelves that contain his thoughts and memories inside his mind, sliding a little gold box forward with H.G. engraved into the lid, he shoves the memory that interrupted his evening with Pansy inside; and slams it shut, sending it flying to its place at the back of the ornate shelf. He slips his shoes off, not even caring that they're contaminating his sheets, and he drifts to sleep fully clothed— hoping Granger doesn't befall him in his uninvited dreams for the night.


	5. Chapter 5

HERMIONE

Her bones crack as she creeps awake from her drowse on the couch, letting her arms stretch above her head, a yawn escaping her lips in the process. Her eyes flutter open slowly, and it takes a moment for her to register her surroundings— the Gryffindor common room. She uses the palm of her hand to leverage herself into a sitting position, careful to not wake the other three students that are still immersed in slumber.

Classes will begin the day after tomorrow— so she'd need spend the day preparing; and she dreads it, but she'll have to make the apprehensive visit to her shared flat with the viciously blonde wizard in order to settle in.

She lifts off of the couch, slipping on her shoes— not even bothering to tie them properly. She reaches down and pulls the knitted blanket over Ginny's shoulder; as the room had grown chilled throughout the night. She grabs the thick occlumency book that sits on the carpet next to where Ginny's hair falls in cascades down the front of the couch. She studies the dark grey binding, letting her finger trace the dark red elaborate font that decorates the cover.

"Please help me," she mouths to the empty space before her— to no one in particular.

Because she does. She needs help. She needs help occluding the godforsaken memories that are occupying too much room in her already jammed packed brain, and there's one thing she hates more than failing; and it's hinged around asking for help subsequently after failing. She thought it to be embarrassing, asking for assistance in any matter. Weak.

She's thankful it's quiet— no students seem to be up for the day yet. She quietly creeps to the exit of the Gryffindor common room, stepping through the portrait hole after it creaks open for her exit. She tugs the key from her robes, placing the golden object on her flat palm, watching as the shank vibrates and swivels around to guide her to her newfound living quarters.

After minutes of following it's directions, it leads her to a dark, arched wooden door that is situated in one of the corners deep in the castle's realms. She smiles to herself thinking about how she'd be utterly ecstatic to have the opportunity to live here if she weren't destined to live with the snake ridden devil himself. She shoves the key in, twisting until it clicks open— hesitantly pushing it open with both of her palms.

She hears a gasp leave her lips as the creaking door slowly brings the common room into vision. Black and white themed— ornate furnishings— it's beautiful. Her eyes immediately find the rows of books— she swiftly strides directly to the wooden credenza that encases an array of them, letting her fingers brush across the rounded spines. They had all been recovered with custom fabric— a black base with silver font etched into each of them. It had always been a dream of hers to own a library— getting all of the books custom bound with a covering to clone one another.

Her daze of libraries and parchment is rudely interrupted by the screech of a door opening. Malfoy side steps out of the lavatory with dripping hair that clings to his forehead in a shaggy manner; and hands that clutch a towel wrapped around his waist. He halts abruptly in his step when he senses her presence, a look of hatred written all over his facial features.

Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of his bare chest— a winding scar travels from shoulder to shoulder, a precise design that looks almost as if it were art, purposely placed there to disrupt the skin of his sternum.

His eyes, however, immediately draw to the occlumency book that had ended up tucked under her armpit in the process of entering the room— his eyebrows draw together, confusion clearly present in his emotion, "Didn't expect you to be here," he groans, distaste rolling off of his tongue— eyes meeting hers as his hands tighten around the cloth that hung low on his hips.

"I could say the same for you," she replies curtly, yanking the book from under her arm, setting it on the flat surface of the credenza's tabletop. She's suddenly ever so aware of her muddled appearance from just waking, she brushes her hand through her hair a few times— trying to tame a few fly-away curls, giving up after a few unsuccessful attempts. They remain standing there awkwardly for a moment, the only sound emitting from the grandfather clock that ticks with each second that passes. They're positioned almost ten steps apart from one another but it feels as if he's much too close— as if his existence is already crowding too much her life. He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, then lets it snap shut as if he changed his mind in the very last second.

So she decides to be the one to fill the void of sound— she clears her throat lightly, "Look, Malfoy— this situation? It sucks. I don't want to endure your presence just as much as you don't want to endure mine. However, we are both adults here— if we simply just stay out of each other's way, there should be little to no conflict, understand?"

A smirk tugs at his lips, "You don't want to be my friend, Granger? I'm heartbroken—devastated, really," he says, sarcasm heavy in his voice as he releases one of the hands that was laced around the towel and grabs at the skin of his chest— fisting where his heart beats below the surface; a way to mock heartbreak.

Her eyes don't follow the to the hand clenched around his imaginary cardiac muscle, rather they are glued to the way the absence of his left hand allows the towel to droop even lower on his hipbones than it was prior— her eyes are tranced to the porcelain skin of his lower abdomen, slight hints of lean muscle appear to clench and release as his chest rises and falls in slow breaths. Hypnotizing in ways that make her hands clammy and her stomach knot.

His smirk widens as he notices her lingering gaze, "Like what you see, Granger?"

She snaps her eyes shut in an instant, tries to shake away the heat she feels budding in her cheeks— sure to cast a red hue to the background of her freckles across her nose, certain to be quite visible to Malfoy's eyes, "Just stay out of my damn way— and," she gulps, "and I'll stay out of yours!" She snaps, unbolting her feet from the tiled floor, striding toward him with clenched fists. A deep snicker leaves his throat as she brushes by him in a quick pace toward the door labeled Head Girl— the sound of his throaty laugh only annoys her further.

"Wait— Granger," he says, holding his hand out, almost touching her shoulder— in a means to deter her path toward the safe haven from his presence, "We need to set up a beginning of the year assembly for the prefects— and I don't want to spend any more time with you than absolutely necessary, but if we fail to do so McGonagall will be on our arses; something I particularly do not have the time nor patience for," he firmly states in a ever so familiar wicked tone of voice.

She turns slowly on her heel to face him, eyes falling to his outstretched arm— the nasty mark that inked the perfect skin of his left forearm looks faded as if somebody had scrubbed the skin until layers upon layers of dermis peeled off. She rapidly flits her eyes to his— hoping he hadn't caught her remaining focus on his own calamitous reminder of the war. She clears her throat for what seems like the thousandth time,"Right— well, we can meet in here tonight and discuss details in a more professional manner if you'd like," she says, emphasis on the word professional— motioning her hands to his half-naked state. This time she's the one with smirk planted on her lips, as she watches his falter.

He rocks from foot to foot awkwardly— a hint of pink bleeds into his cheeks, which sparks a feeling of joy inside of her chest; because making Draco Malfoy self-conscious after years of enduring his ceaseless turmoil— feels almost as satisfying as when she knocked her knuckles square into his pointy little face third year, the blow split the skin of her knuckles right in half— but it was worth the pain to put him in his rightful place.

"Yes— well, tonight then— after tea in the Great Hall," he drones, tugging the towel higher up his waist, "don't be late— I have things to do, people to see," he smirks, "or— people to do, and places to see, if you will."

She rolls her eyes in annoyance at his innuendo— chooses to not reply; and continues her path to the room that she would get to call her own for the next two terms.

She twists the knob, pushes herself into the bedchamber.

It's small, but the arched ceiling and elaborate windows cause it to feel quite roomy. The bed looks to be made for a queen, four posters with garnet tapestry hanging from each pole, connecting to each other in a graceful pattern. Gold and maroon decorative pillows lay in perfect position on top of a maroon duvet— the room looks to be straight out of a home decor magazine. A large maple book shelf and golden winged-back chair sit caddied in the corner left of the bed. Her brown trunk lay horizontally at the foot of the four-poster; and her satchel is set on top— quills and books spilling out of the opening.

It becomes quite obvious, even at just a glance, that the room was specially designed for her taste— she'd have to thank McGonagall properly at a later time.

She spends the next few hours settling in— hanging clothes in her cupboard, finding places on the large bookshelf to house her own books, and arranging her intimates in the dresser just the way she likes them to be: socks in the first drawer, undergarments in the second, and pajamas in the third— organized by colors and textures.

After settling in completely— she decides she'd fancy a bubble bath.

She wraps herself in a red silk robe her mother had gifted her at Christmas time the year prior, and heads for the lavatory in quick strides, hopeful to not have another interaction with the white-headed wizard.

The washroom is just as elaborate as the rest of the flat— marbled flooring, a claw-footed tub, and an open tiled shower all fit snugly into the room; making it rather regal, yet cozy.

She eyes the spacious shower, but decidedly opts for a bath, tugging her wand out and switching the faucet on hot, she casts a silent bubble spell and watches with a smile as clear blobs begin to form on the water's surface.

She slips her robe off and hangs it on the back of the door, pads barefooted over to the tub and sinks herself into it— letting the hot water relax every muscle in her body as her head rests on the rounded edge of the marble.

DRACO

Infuriating. She's absolutely infuriating. Waltzing in here with her bloody thigh high tights and messy hair— fuck, how does somebody have the energy to be that bloody aggravating at this time of day. She didn't even do anything in particular to set him off— it's just her mere existence that has him on edge. It's in the way her fingers brush through her curls— the way her eyes glint golden hues in the light of morning sun that was creeping in through the window, the way goosebumps fanned across his skin in every location her eyes locked on: his lower torso, neck, arms— anywhere he noticed her eyes accidental linger— thanks to her his skin is now sore from the disruption that the bloody elevated bumps caused.

He's pacing back and forth in his room, clad in his boxers, hands running through damp hair in exasperation. His brain twirling around the fact she was dressed in the same clothes she had worn the day before, furthering the conclusion to the ideology that she and the Weasley bloke really are well on enough to sleep together. The articles in the papers weren't fibbing— he bets their secretly engaged as well. Gross. He physically cringes at the idea of his sure-to-be sloppy kisses tainting her lips, leaving bubbles of slobber on her cheeks like the dog he is.

There's a tap at his window that yanks him from his vision of Weasley's burly hands on her lithe waist. A white owl with brown speckles is tapping furiously away at his window sill, ivory parchment gripped in between it's beak. He pads across the floor, clicking the window open he snatches the letter from the bird, nodding his head once in thanks.

He slides his thumb under the letters fold, ripping the wax stamp clean off; and tugs the folded parchment from the envelope and slowly unfolds it; and it reads:

Mr. Malfoy,

I hope this letter finds you well. Tea in my office this afternoon, please? 2:00 p.m. on the dot, no earlier; and no later. I fear I have some furthering information regarding your probation with the Ministry. Nothing to be too concerned of, just a new requisite that needs to be fulfilled through out the school year.

Headmistress McGonagall

His brain is immediately running in circles attempting to figure out what the newfound requirement he would need to complete per the Ministry's orders would entail. He shoves the letter back into its envelope and crams it into a little drawer in the oak desk that's situated long in front of a bay window in his bedroom.

He moves to sit on the edge of his bed, letting his elbows rest on his knees, hands brushing roughly through his almost dry hair. He holds his left arm out in front of his face, studying the inflamed skin on his forearm.

He feels it— the mark. He feels it seep dark magic through his veins in every second that passes that his heart is beating. He wants it off of him, out of him— more than he wants just about anything. His mother made him visit St. Mungos a few months back to speak with a psychiatric therapist that focuses on patients who have dealt with dark magic in their past. And although it took lacing his tea with veritaserum to pull it out of him, he eventually came forward about the countless nightmares and the searing pain the mark emits, causing every cell that fabricates his veins to become stinging strings of hellfire. The psychiatric "professional" simply gave him a look of pity over thick-rimmed glasses, and assured him it was all in his head. He wanted to jump straight across her fucking pink desk, grasp her frilly pink blazer, and shove her into the pink wallpapered wall of her office and tell her that's exactly the fucking problem. It's all in his head, yes. It's all in his fucking head and it's eating away at his fucking brain.

So he scratches at it. He burns it. He claws it, slices layers of skin off with a blade. Partakes in the use of poisonous narcotics that are beautiful inventions from the muggle world. Anything. Anything that would make it fade— go away. But it always comes back— ink bleeding into his skin like it's a freshly needled tattoo.

After he's done pitying himself, he dresses in a black jumper, black trousers, and a silver-buckled belt that fits snuggly around his waist.

He spends the next hour or so organizing books on the bookshelf that sat next to the desk in his room, using his wand to maneuver the texts as he lazily sat on his bed, sorting them in alphabetical order by title instead of author.

He skips both breakfast and lunch, not in any mood to consume nutrition. Instead, he sits on the winged-back chair that's tucked caddied to his bookshelf, and immerses himself in a book discussing the history of Animagus transformations.

When it's half past one o'clock, he slips on a pair of socks and shoes and grabs his robe hanging from a coat rack in the common room, and heads out the door— double checking the space to make sure the witch was nowhere in sight before doing so.

He steps into the Headmistress' office with uncertainty, "Good afternoon, Headmistress."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy— come boy, sit," she motions to one of her winged-back chairs that he was just sitting in what felt like minutes ago with Granger next to him. He takes the designated seat, and watches as she pours him a steaming cup of tea with a swoop of her wand. He snaps the levitating cup from mid-air, spooning three teaspoons of honey into the liquid and stirs— just like she does.

McGonagall exhales, a smile full of hesitation pulls at the corner of her lips, "I received word from the minister early this morning," she says, pouring herself a cup of the steaming liquid, "it appears they feels the simple task of taking on Head Boy is not near enough requirement for your probation."

He just nods in reply— taking a long swig of tea, letting the hot liquid burn his tongue.

"As you may or may not know, there is a unenforceable branch of curriculum here at Hogwarts," she declaims, dropping a cube of sugar into her tea, "Yes, well— it's a branch of curriculum that is concentrated around muggles— Muggle Studies being the proper term."

He feels his rows of teeth bar into one another as he clears his throat, feebly questions, "Muggle studies?"

"Yes, you may not believe such— because of your inaccurate upbringing—but muggles are rather interesting creatures Mr. Malfoy, they don't have the privilege to be lazy with the use of magic. Hard working, they are. Their magic is rooted in their emotions— they feel things we don't, you see? Without the use of magic, the human brain takes on a more formative approach to the more sentiment aspect of the brain," she speaks with a sense of formality that makes Draco lift his shoulders until his back is pin straight.

He nods for her to continue, sucking his teeth because his temper is hot— begging to burst at the seams holding him together by mere threads.

She pushes a three tiered platter of scones, biscuits, and other pastries in his direction, in a means to offer him one of the sweets. He shakes his head— deciding that he felt too nauseous to indulge in such at the moment, "I understand where this is coming from Headmistress, however, I assure yourself and the Ministry that I will be able to be a beneficial asset to the wizarding society without Muggle Studies being added to my class schedule," he states, clanking his ring on the class of the teacup in a steady rhythm to calm his wracking nerves, words flowing sternly through his barred teeth.

"And I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, that that your knowledge on the muggle community holds the upmost importance in you even receiving a crumb of opportunity to even be considered for a non-essential job at the Ministry, let alone a job that could amplify you to become a credible asset to this said wizarding society— to work toward clearing your family's name," she says, curtly— narrowing her eyes into his, "Oh— and there's more to this. The ministry feels that you will also need a sort of hands on experience with the subject, my dear."

He's shaking his head in utter disbelief, "Hands...on?" He questions, bringing the tea to his parted lips with shaking hands, once again letting the liquid burn his tongue. He appreciates it when his nerves scream at him in discomfort.

"It is exactly as it sounds, Mr. Malfoy, a direct involvement in the muggle community of London," she intertwines her fingers, and leans forward, letting her elbows rest on her desk, "At least once a month you will floo to King's Cross, and venture into the little world that is muggle London. You will return right here the following week after each visit with an at least two parchment statement on all of the things you saw, admired, and found interesting. This is important for the opinions of the Ministry to change their ever failing views of you, son— it's dire that you take this assignment seriously. I do not believe you wish to join your father in his cell in Azkaban— I know I don't trust that particular fate suits you very well."

He jerks back at the casual mention of his father— something he's not used to, "I'll do whatever it takes," he says, genuinely— and he means it. He's tired of fighting, being the bad guy in every situation. The villain. He's doing it for his mother— feels obligated. Her name is already a low ball on the list of high societal names; and although he never understood it, throwing galas and evening events was Narcissa's thing— her passion, if you will. Lucious ripped that away from her when he chose the cowardly path of night— so he'll do whatever, whenever to get into good graces with the Ministry.

"Very well," she says, leaning her back into the elaborate desk chair she's seated in, "On with you then, I'm sure you have much preparation to tend to for the commencement of the school year," she stands, tilting her chin forward toward the exit.

He swiftly stands, awkwardly placing the teacup with its saucer neatly on her desk; and waits for the Headmistress to voice her departing words.

A maternal grin appears on her face, she pulls a burlap satchel out from the folds of her robes labeled 'Floo Powder'; and offers it to him with firm hands "Make me proud, Malfoy. Don't let them be right about you," she says, in a mere whisper.

He returns the emotion, grasping the flimsy bag with the same firm grip; the ends of his lips tugging upward, "I tend to do just the opposite, don't I?— But nothing but high hopes here, Headmistress," he nods once, then turns to migrate toward the exit, finding her eyes once again before the gargoyle spins him out of sight. He waves his hand once in goodbye; and he watches as the gesture only makes her smile grow wider— a smile that makes him miss his mother all the more.

He hates when people expect good from him— it's too habitual for him to disappoint those few who do see light within his existence. He intends to keep these type of people locked out of his life— dead-bolted behind metal doors.

He makes his way back to his room, floo powder tucked away in his trousers— just a few hours to spare before dinner in the Great Hall. He slips back into his flat, and strides directly to the bath. Once inside, he twists the tub's faucet handle all the way hot, steam spiraling out as the heat merges with the cool of the air. He uses his wand to heat the water even further—ripping his jumper off and throwing it into a heap on the floor. He tucks his arm under the running water— letting it char the flesh on his forearm where the mark sat prominently on his muted skin. It feels good— sort of like scratching an itch that's been stinging for hours. It's nice to focus on something other than the pain that intertwines in his brain— physical pain has been he only remedy. Like a written prescription for his issues. He has an urge to just jump in the fiery hot water— letting the burn consume his body, scorching the skin until boils form, replacing his flawless complexion. He stays this way for nearly half an hour, arm burning under the fire of the water, kneeled next to the tub's marbled edge; and watches as the skin of his forearm bubbles and boils, enthralled by the tinge of crimson that swirls down the drain, mixing with the vaporous water.

After the weight of his body on his knees becomes too much to bear on the hard flooring, and the adrenaline from the pain throws him into a state of exhaust— he slams the water off; and bolts into his room, not even bothering to return his jumper to its rightful place on his torso. He slips his shoes off and settles into his fluffy, green bedding— diving directly off of a cliff into slumber that takes up the remaining hours of the afternoon.

He wakes to the sound of footfalls accumulating in the hallway, loud enough to hear from his bed— a sure sign that it's nearing time for dining in the Great Hall. He arises, using the back of his hands to remove sleep from his eyes. He reaches for his wand that had ended up on his nightstand— casts a silent healing charm; and watches as the skin of his arm is reborn, ink bleeding into the sore, ready to replace the mark of darkness.

He hops off the bed, snatching a green knitted jumper from his cupboard, tossing it over his head. He slips his dress shoes over his socks without bothering to untie the laces, and heads out the door— suddenly aware of the lack of food he's consumed throughout the day.

Upon arrival to the arched doorway that leads into the Great Hall, he sees Theo and Blaise are leaning against the stone of the wall, seemingly waiting for his arrival; as their faces brighten up a great deal when he approaches them.

"Oh— thank Merlin, I was beginning to think my stomach was eating away at itself," Theo hums, rubbing his torso with a flat hand in circles.

Blaise rolls his eyes, "You literally just got done eating a bag and a half of licorice wands— the dramatics of you, Theodore," he torts, crossing his arms across his chest.

"That was merely a starter, Mr. Zabini," Theo says, winking to enhance the sarcasm behind the statement.

"Fuck, mate— you've got to lay off of the fluxweed. I'm tired of your munchies allowing you to consume half of our hidden stash of sweets, we only get to restock on our visits to Hogsmeade— which is what? Once a week or so?"

"Hey now—"

"Fuck— mates, are we going to keep standing here with our thumbs in our arses or are we going to fucking eat?" Draco grunts, interrupting the little bromance fest— pushing past them with his shoulders.

Theo mutters under his breath a list of profanities and ends the dramatic monologue with, "Drama queen," as a direct jab at Draco's arrogant impatience.

He decides to let it slide just this once, feels his temper needs a rest.

The three of them enter the doorway in unison, they walk to their normal seats at the Slytherin table—Pansy already occupying her customary seat adjacent to Draco's. He takes his seat— stomach gurgling in protest to his lack of food throughout the day. He immediately spoons roast and mash onto his plate; and wastes no time before digging into it, shoveling the potatoes into his mouth, all the lessons of proper etiquette flying out the window. 

His eyes find her mid-chew— Granger. Spooning some sort of custard into her mouth— always dessert before her meal. He watches as she and Ginny Weasley have a cordial conversation, while Ron chews on a turkey leg, hunched over in improper manners no less.

"Why do you always look at her?" Pansy's sultry voice breaks through his focus on the witch, he rolls his eyes in irk.

He cuts his eyes to her, "I don't know what you're on about," he says, in a voice low enough to not catch any outsider's attention.

"Your little infatuation with the mudblood— I've always seen it to be true, eyes lingering a bit too long— for years now. I just hope you don't let this little living altercation blind you into something wrong— something like love," she says, lifting a silver goblet full of pumpkin juice to her red lips.

He feels as if a bowling ball has just been wedged into the pit of his stomach as her words set in, "Love? You've lost your fucking mind— mad, really," he seethes, shaking his head in disbelief, continuing to shove the steaming food into his mouth.

"So, you're not going to fall in love with her?" She says, leaning inward to trace her fingernail across the back of his neck like she always does, "You know good and well that scenario won't end well for the either of you— no happy endings for blood traitors," she mummers, leaning close into his ear to enunciate the statement.

He shakes his head, "I don't fall in love with people— I don't love anybody; and you of all people should know that," he voices through barred teeth.

And he feels joy watching her smug expression falter into embarrassment.

And he means that— nothing but absolute honesty laced in his words.

Love is not a word that resides in Draco Malfoy's dictionary— not a damned thing would alter that.


	6. Chapter 6

HERMIONE

She finds herself feeling dangerously anxious during dinner in the Great Hall, spooning lemon custard into her mouth with a shaking hand— the sweetness sure to spoil her entree. Ginny, however, is just eyeing her with concern written heavily into her features.

"Have you had a run in with him, or something?" the red-headed witch questions in a hushed tone, moving a half eaten slice of roast around her plate with the scrape of her fork, "Because you're acting off your bloody rocker."

Hermione sucks on her teeth, agitated with herself for letting her emotions run transparent, "Is it that obvious?" She releases the spoon into the dessert dish, causing a clanking noise that adverts the attention of a few Gryffindors seated nearby— she holds her palms up in apology; and revisits her eyes to Ginny, "Yeah— he was in the headroom earlier, fucking shirtless no less— we're supposed to meet tonight to discuss Head Student business—but he's just hard to be around, you know? It feels wrong— I mean— weird to be in such close proximity to him. He makes me feel on edge."

Ginny develops self-satisfactory, smug grin on her face as she lets Hermione finish her blabbing, "Not the infamous Draco Malfoy causing Hermione Granger, the great war heroine, to be so damned on edge about a simple meeting— he must of looked damned good shirtless" she giggles with each word.

"I'm being serious Ginny," she says, nudging her shoulder with her own in a joking manner, "he's— he's different now. He's always been vile, yes; but now he's walking corruption— it's bloody terrifying," she says, focusing on her fingers fiddling with the tip of the spoon she just unhandled a few moments ago, "he looks at me like he wants me dead— and he wants to be the one to commit the crime."

"Oh please, 'Mione— Malfoy's nothing but a spoilt little prat," Ron chimes in, chewing on the side of a chicken leg, "he's a bloody ex death eater— and he couldn't even do that job correctly without mommy's help— bloody useless," he shakes his head, picking aimlessly at the greasy skin of the drumstick.

"Don't be so insulting, Ronald," Ginny shoves his burly shoulder with her small hand, "he's been through hell— just like the rest of us."

"He didn't lose a fucking brother," Ron snaps almost immediately after Ginny gets her last word out, "he doesn't know the first thing about hell, Ginevra."

"He lost his dignity— his childhood, it was robbed of him Ron, you've seen the articles in the papers about his father— Lucius' trial wasn't just focused around the subject of the second wizarding war— no. Child maltreatment is on his list of crimes in bold, red lettering. Malfoy's not cruel for no reason. His father put the weight of the world on his shoulders, and when he couldn't carry it he beat him— he beat him the good old fashioned muggle way," she's whispering, and Hermione's wondering when she's had time to develop a pity for the boy, "it's time we drop the grudges, Ron; and move on. It does no good to dwell— even Harry agrees with me on this."

Hermione feels a uninvited lump wedge itself in the base of her throat— she thinks back to the rows of scars that flawed his chest that she caught sight of earlier during their unpleasant encounter. Ron just rolls his eyes, cheeks red from anger as he refocuses his eyes on the plate of food in front of him.

"He saved Harry once," she blurts, "If— if we're discussing his very few redeeming qualities," she's surprised the words tumble from her mouth, the two red heads snap to her in confusion, "he— he knew who he was at the Malfoy's Manor— when Harry's face was all swollen and mangled up— he— he claimed he didn't recognize him. Harry's life was on the line in that very moment— a simple yes would have ended it all right then and there; and none of us would be sitting here," she chokes the words out like they're poison.

Ron slams his fist down on the table, hard enough to knock a few goblets of water over, the clear liquid streaming through plates and silverware, a group of girls gasping at his aggression,"You did not— just give Malfoy a hero title for muttering a simple 'I can't be sure', God— Hermione, you really have gone fucking mental—he let you fucking rot while his aunt dug her wand into you like bloody chalk on pavement!"

"Ronald!" Ginny screams over his already too loud voice, "Shut it!"

People began to stare— eavesdropping on the argument two-thirds of the golden trio are undergoing.

Ron just narrows his eyes into Hermione's over Ginny's lap, "The papers are fucking right about you," he whispers, making sure the words ricochet in her brain.

The papers. The Daily Prophet. Things she's been avoiding intentionally in the past few weeks leading up to Hogwart's academic commencement.

Tired of seeing the countless opinions of her— exhausted with people feeling the need to voice their perceptions of her to the public eye. She just stares at him, mute— unsure how to respond to his sudden temper.

"Ronald, damnit!" Ginny shrills, as Ron slides off the bench in haste, not even looking back once as he exits the Great Hall in an angry trek, "Merlin— he's so hot and cold, fine one second and his world is crumbling the next."

"The papers?" Hermione questions, innocently disregarding Ginny's harsh words on Ron's behalf; a feeble attempt to ignore his departure.

"It's nothing— don't worry about it," Ginny snaps, "just Rita Skeeter grasping at anything she can to create stories that will spark gossip."

"And what exactly is she using this time to quote on quote 'spark gossip', Ginny?" she asks, leaning her elbow on the table, her head resting into her palm, accusation running thick in her voice.

That's when she sees it. Fay Dunbar is sipping on a mug of steamy coffee, holding a print of the Dailey Prophet in firm hands. A bold lettering headliner reads:

MAYBE OUR GOLDEN GIRL, ISN'T SO GOLDEN AFTER ALL: HAS HERMIONE GRANGER LET THE WAR FORCE HER TO GO MAD?

An animated photo of her is tucked below— and she doesn't recognize herself; but she recognizes the day the photo was taken. Last winter— when her mental health was at it's plummet. She's seated in the snow in Diagon Alley, her knees, clad in tights with runs, are tucked to her chest— a half empty bottle of fire whiskey lifts to her mouth with a wobbly hand on repeat per the moving photo. Then there's the blood— it stains the snow around her thick puffer coat in swirls. The habit she picked up on after the war of squeezing her nails into the palms of her hands until the red liquid drew was exceptionally common during the time of the photo. She does look— well, she looks bloody mad to be quite frank. It isn't an intentional thing— the professionals had assured her it was merely a way to cope with feelings in a physical method. She can narrowly make out the excerpt of letters that captions the photo— she swings her eyes just enough to hardly make out the words alcoholic and dependent— and something regarding wilted wings.

Ginny follows her gaze to the paper, snaps her eyes back to Hermione's instantaneously when the realization that she's seen it sinks in, "I swear I'll stick her sizable plethora of fancy quills directly up her arse," she voices nastily, as she turns to re-read the paper gripped in Fay's small hands, "I mean it's bloody ridiculous! Using a young girl's bad day as a reason to start up fire on whether her marbles are all in order," the Weasley sister hastily stands, walks over to Fay Dunbar without hesitation and yanks the bundle of parchment from the girl's hands— nearly giving the poor Gryffindor multiple paper slits. She crumples it up and voices loudly, "You should know better than to read that garbage, Fay— maybe try picking up an educational text from the library to keep your brain occupied from now on forward."

The Dunbar girl just just gapes at Ginny, jaw basically resting on the Great Hall's shiny floor.

Ginny turns on her heel without another word, brushes directly past Hermione to the exit of the Great Hall, making two Weasleys withdrawing from the hall in such a vexed manner this evening.

Hermione silently stands, gripping the crumpled Daily Prophet off of the floor that Ginny had discarded in passing, crimson blushing her cheeks— she gives Fay a look that speaks apologies and follows Ginny out of the arched doorway, fingernails plowing into the poor skin of her palms.

She makes it out door just before the first tear glides down her cheek— reminding her just how damned weak she is.

DRACO

He's just made it back from the Great Hall, seated in one of the kitchenette's dark wooden chairs awaiting Granger's arrival so they can get this ludicrous meeting shite over with. He's using his wand to trace the oak design engraved into the table when the door rips open, revealing a very disheveled looking witch. She doesn't even stop for a split second before traipsing into the bath without a mere glance in his direction, rumpled up paper floats the the floor from her robes as she slams the door shut— hiding from the world.

He sits there, letting the confusion pull at his facial features. His mind immediately envisions Weasley being the one behind the heartbreak— annoyance tugs sideways at his stomach.

He uses his wand to smoothly levitate the crumpled up paper Granger had littered the floor with in her entrance of rage, grasps it quickly, un-wrinkling it's edges until it lays flat on the surface of the table, smoothing it with both of his palms. His mouth falls slack open in response to the photograph that's revealed in front of him— it's Granger, but it's also not Granger— well it is but she's— she's disarranged, seated in the snow with ripped tights, glass bottle of fire whiskey pressed to her lips; and the blood— you'd have to look closely, but he sees it— the moon shaped wounds that grace the palm of the hand that isn't wrapped around the neck of the glass bottle. Self- inflicted.

Just then the door creaks slowly unlatched, he quickly folds the paper and shoves it into the pocket of his trousers, before she notices his nosey gandering. Granger steps out like nothing is wrong. Like she didn't just stomp in here five minutes ago causing tornados and hurricanes. She strolls to one of the counters in the kitchenette, and grabs a mass of parchment that's neatly stacked— she levels it on the palm of her hand, guiding it toward the table where Draco is seated. She slides one of the chairs out, and sits— awkwardly scooting it back toward the table to get comfortable. Her eyes are puffy— clearly aggravated from wiping them vigorously. She'd been crying— and is trying to be subtle of the matter.

She folds her hands neatly on the table in front of her and clears her throat, "Well— let's get down to business, shall we?"

He simply nods once— afraid to say anything, afraid his deep vocals will shatter her in her fragile state like an opera singer next to glass.

She slides the top piece of parchment from the stack, laying it flat on the table in between them, "I've already printed out a schedule for meetings and the like. McGonagall has approved for us to use one of the abandoned classrooms that occupies the dungeons— we'll meet once every two weeks to make sure everything is running how it's supposed to," she says, running her index finger across the parchment instructing his eyes to read the words etched into the parchment's surface, "After tea on Friday evenings is when they are scheduled— shouldn't overlap with any quidditch games or anything of the sort."

He nods, eyes scanning over where her fingers lead, still afraid to speak— his eyes wonder to the rest of the stacked, inked parchment.

She notices his questioning gaze on them, "Oh, these? Yes— I've written up the schedule and duplicated them with my wand— there is a copy for each of us and every prefect— just for organizational purposes," she says, shuffling a few of the papers to show him that they were all replicas of the same print.

"How very predictable of you," he says, snatching one of the schedules for himself, watches as crimson bleeds behind the constellation of freckles that blanket over her nose at his remark. Merlin, it's just too easy to make her squirm— a nervous one, she is.

"Is there anything we need to discuss— clear the air before we meet with the prefects," she questions, eyebrows scrunching together.

"Yeah— actually there is one thing," he pauses, thinking of exactly how to word this concern to convey the message properly, "You see, Granger? Your bitchy glances and know-it-all mouth has kept you from receiving any sort of invite— but we do party around here. In the past— the Head Students have both been a part of this associating circle so there has never been any issues, however, with you and your— well— your big mouth, people have been expressing concerns that you'll end their fun," he says, brutally— watching as fire lights behind her eyes.

She smiles— a smile that looks like it holds a million secrets, a smile that tells him he's an idiot, "I don't plan on breaking any parties up, Malfoy— or ruining any fun for that matter."

"You're sure about that, Granger?" He snaps.

"Sure as i'll ever be about anything, Malfoy— I mean...I guess there's the rare occasion of one of these said gatherings getting too out of hand—"

"And what's out of hand to you, Granger? A little bit of alcohol?" He interrupts, crossing his arms over his chest, one side of his mouth widening in a smirk.

"No— I suppose if a fight progresses far enough to extents where wands are drawn— lives are at stake," she says, curtly, mimicking his position of arms across her chest.

"So you're fine with alcohol? Drugs? These parties, they're," he leans down to eye level with her to enunciate his next words, "pretty fucking intense," he seethes, glowering into her eyes with his.

She lets out a laugh, a throaty jester, "I think we've all been through hell here— I think, uh— I think we all deserve to experience a little bit of pleasure— assorted in with all of the endurance of pain," she smirks, letting her tongue glide across the top row of her teeth. Something that looked foreign on her features, a gesture more fitted for Pansy.

He feels his cock twitch in his trousers, as her tongue dances across her mouth; has always hated that she has this sort of effect on him,"You don't know the first thing about pleasure, Granger," he looks to the side, focusing on the tiled floors— fighting his mind as it screams at him to show her. Show her how good it feels to let go. Show her how good it feels to escape— that he could be the one to do it— that he's perfect for just that. That he could make her feel free— forget everything that has her digging her nails into her flesh— help her live in utter ecstasy; that she wouldn't need occlumency to hide her demons once he was done with her.

"I know plenty," she snaps, not even picking up on his double meaning behind the statement— jabbing at her sexual history; or her lack thereof. She leans her elbows on the surface of the table, face squishing into the palms of her hands, "There are also a few rules and regulations we need to discuss in regards to this living situation."

"Mhm," he replies in a murmur, still fighting the voices in his head, eyes now focused on his hands in his lap.

"Let's make a pact, shall we? — So that when we decide to self-destruct, we clean up after ourselves," she says, through gritted teeth, "there's blood— it's all over the bathtub,"she drones, a look of triumph bleeding into her features.

His head snaps, eyes glue to hers, "Oh, you'd know a lot about self-destruction wouldn't you— don't act like your coping methods are any less medieval than mine," he's seething, anger fuming in his skull— hot enough he's surprised the sudden temperature change hasn't caused steam to shoot from his ears.

"Don't you dare compare me to you—," she spits, "I am not a thing like you, Malfoy," she slaps her palms to the table, causing the vase of arranged flowers to jump.

That's it. Good girl. Get angry. I like angry.

He rips the paper from his pocket, flattening it out with one hand onto the table, and leans to yank one of hers out from where it now rests lazily fisted across the flat of the surface; he flattens it out with his other hand— places it firmly, palm up next to the article of her pictured muddled in the blood-ridden snow, "Oh, but Granger? I think we're more alike than you'd like to lead on."

She reviews her scarred palm with a look of disgust, face scrunches up— blinking rapidly, as her eyes dance to and from the Daily Prophet to her blemished palm to the exposed flesh of his left forearm where the sleeve of his jumper is bunched up to his elbow— exposing his dormant dark mark.

And it feels good to watch her writhe, be disgusted with herself. He suddenly feels less alone in this hell— because yes, that occlumency book she had tucked under her arm earlier wasn't for light reading— no, she has demons she wants to hide, tuck away. Something they had in common—a mutual affair.

She shoots up so fast the chair she was seated in prior falls on its back, bouncing a few times before it settles, rounds the edge of the table in the blink of an eye— and she's on him, in his face; hands laced so tightly around his collar the wrinkles are sure to never fully come out, "You're fucking weak Malfoy! Fucking coward!" She's seething, voice so loud it's ringing in his ears, she's frantically searching his eyes with hers— teetering back and forth, head bobbing side to side, "I get to be sad— I get to self-destruct! I get to be weak! I watched people I love die— helpless. You? You don't get to be sad— you don't get to— you just don't get to!" Tears are streaming down her cheeks now; and he has to mentally tie his knuckles to the underside of his thighs to keep from reaching to brush one of the silver stones away, "You don't get to! You deserve to rot with your father— you're just like him— fucking weak!"

There's nobody on this fucking rock floating in space that can enrage him like she can— it's always been that way— brutally provoking; utterly maddening. 

Now it's his turn to be mad, he unlatches his hands away from his thighs and grips her wrists, yanking them out sideways away from his collar— and then they're backing up together until she's pressed up against the marbled wall, her fist in his above her head, his wand pressed ever so slightly into her jugular— begging to be used, "Don't you dare compare me to my fucking father— that'll be your first and last mistake with me, you little mudblood cunt," he spits, shaking with utter rage, he presses the wand harder into her throat, causing the skin to indent taught under its sharp tip— she tilts her chin up from the pressure, exposing the silken skin of her neck. He leans in, almost magnetically— letting his lips brush across the expanse of her throat delicately, sets into a position where he knows his breath will tease all the right places when he speaks, "You wanna know what I think is weak, Granger?" He feels her squirm in response, "Laying on the floor of my very own drawing room, while my aunt— my own fucking flesh and blood— carves into your skin— looking to me, of all people— for rescue? That's fucking weak," their chests are heaving up and down in beautiful unison, the anger is causing his vision to go hazy— black dots dance within his eyesight.

She turns her head toward his, making their lips almost brush, and she speaks into him, "You wanna know what I think is weak, Malfoy?" She pants, letting her eyes narrow into slits, "Fucking standing there and letting it happen," and she smiles, like she knows— like she knows that's what's been eating him alive for the past two years, "I know that night is ripping away at you— limb by limb," she laughs, letting her tongue dart out to wet her dry bottom lip, "I wasn't so sure before— but I see it now."

Draco doesn't quite grasp the humor in the statement.

In a split second his wand is replaced by his hand, wrapped firmly around her neck, fingers resting on the nape— thumb wrapped around the front. He's tranced by the way the ring that sits on his index finger twists the fragile skin of her throat in the most mesmeric kind of way. Necks were his thing. Grabbing them, kissing them. He loved the thought of the part of the body that connected the brain to the rest of it being sexual— sensitive. They were delicate— conducted of utter fragility— yet held so much importance. A lifeline. A handle to hold on to, a way to claim. The easiest way to assert dominance.

She doesn't fight it— lets it happen; he runs his thumb in circular motions along the bridge of her trachea— the silk of her skin feels captivating as it runs smoothly under his rugged appendage.

He almost forgets she just ripped him to shreds with a few words merely seconds ago— almost forgets he's angry— he's reminded when one of her tears escapes her cheek onto the back of his hand; he takes the moisture as a cue to lean in again, continue his dispute; but this time his mouth is essentially caressing her ear, speaking just above a whisper, "Maybe I liked it— watching you suffer. Maybe it was the highlight of my sad little life to watch the all-knowing bitch get fucking shredded in the walls of my own home—," he moves his lips to her jaw now, brushing them downward along the sharp rim, "maybe it tasted fucking sweet— maybe I relish in it— the memory of watching you get branded with the nickname I always had out for you," he speaks into her soft skin— only stops moving his lips when they're hovering over the fore of hers, their eyes lock in too close of a proximity— almost making his eyes cross inward from trying to focus, "don't try to one up me, Granger— I always win in the end," their lips brush faintly, her breath hitches; and she's shaking under his delicate grip— "Don't look for redeemable qualities in me— they aren't there, you depend on me for anything and you're sure to end up fighting hellfire and brimstone, and we all know your fire has died out— wilted by the effects of the war—," he trails his lips back up her jaw unhurriedly, letting his bottom lip drag lazily open along her sharp bone,"and you wouldn't be able to handle it," and then he suctions down on the edge of her jawline—tenderly with his lips, because he wants to, because he can— because she's letting him. A weak moan escapes her perfect little throat— his cock twitches again at her response to his mouth open wet on her jawbone— a chime of pleasure instigated by him— it feels euphoric. Thrilling— almost— to be the reasoning behind her moan of satisfaction.

He knew in that very moment that she could be it— the key to his pain. His antidote— his cure. If she'd let him be this close to her— he would never need the burn of liquor, or the high of smoke— or the fucking need to injure himself in cruel ways to stop the fucking chronic agony Voldemort's stamp causes—none of that fucking shite.

But he would never have her— never grasp the luxury of being this close ever again, he's already given himself too much by just teasing the skin that stretches over her chin with his tongue.

"Fuck you," she spits, bringing him back to reality, "You're fucking disgusting— absolutely fucked in the head!" She uses all of her strength to rip his hand away from her neck, launches into his chest with both of her fists— retracts, ready to punch again; but he grips both of her wrists before she has the chance, "Do not fucking hit me— don't you dare fucking touch me," he glowers, leaning down to become eye level with her.

She winces and yanks one of her arms away from his hold, she cradles it into her chest in discomfort. It couldn't have been his grip that caused the pain— he was sure to be delicate. His eyes search the arm she's holding near her torso— there's scarlet percolating through the seams of her sleeve. It's the arm— the arm he just went on and on about how much he enjoyed watching get mutilated by his aunt.

What the fuck? The scar is almost three years old— how is it— bleeding?

She's noticed it now too— the ruby-colored liquid staining her shirt, her eyes snap to his with pupils blown wide in complete horror.

And she's gone— in her room in a flash, door slamming behind her.

And once again he's glued to the floor, petrified, as Hermione Granger fights her demons all alone.


	7. Chapter 7

HERMIONE

She's certain of it.

She's always made excuses in her head— reasonings. It was never quite one-hundred percent— never absolute, never quite definite enough to fixate herself in the opinion.

She used to utilize the singular redeeming deed he had executed during the war of failing to identify Harry in the heat of Bellatrix's threats and interrogations as leverage to not be finite in belief.

But she's secured it into her judgement now— she hates him. She absolutely loathes him— detests; every word in the english dictionary that describes distaste could be compiled together to describe just how she feels about Draco Malfoy.

She's additionally positive on a further matter.

She sees it.

Not only does she see it— she understands it, feels it.

She sees what the other girls see— understands precisely why their eyes have always lingered on him for just a few moments too long in quick passing along corridors, or across tables in libraries. She used to think they just saw what she saw— a disgustingly dreadful boy with daddy issues, a boy they should run away from, fear. But no— they feel greed in their lower abdomens— an animalistic emotion that we're told no young girl should ever experience. They see his jawline— so sharp as if crafted for the sole purpose of splitting them open, and ripping them apart. They see his hands, fingertips so rough, yet so tantalizing as they trickle promises of pleasure while they gracefully trace art into their skin, and poems of satisfaction into their minds. They see a lithe waist wrapped in elaborate belts, fitted suits— broad shoulders. They see a situation ending in flames— which is stimulating in ways that aren't expressible with words.

The whispers and prattles that would float around in lavatories and late night sessions of girl-to-girl chatter— describing fingers in mouths and tongues on inner thighs, they all make sense now.

He's godly— in the physical realms; no more, no less.

He's not charming, or endearing— no, he's unapologetically sadistic— wicked in all the right ways to be a token for lustful daydreams. He's glacial. Hauntingly beautiful. Lucifer before the fall.

Things she's always seen.

But before their little dispute over past traumas, she didn't see it in the slightest— she assumed people only truly desired him because they craved the title of being the one to tame the beast— or the co-spender of his hefty inheritance.

But no— things have definitely transformed into dazzling shambles in the deepest, darkest fragments of her mind. Yes— she thinks Draco Malfoy has educated her on the subject of lust by just simply wrapping his hand around her neck.

And she hates herself for it— hates him for it.

She had no idea the skin that stretches over her throat was so responsive to touch— so wanting for fingertips to dig into the flesh, aching for lips to latch onto the skin— sucking until purple rings are left decorative in winding trails up along her jaw.

She tried to occlude it— in the moment, but she was tranced— in a hypnotic state from the waft of his even breaths causing electricity to run through her veins as it fanned across her skin. Tried to push the ache in between her shaking thighs away— clear her mind. Tried to ignore the voice in her head telling her to just let herself feel it— feel every segment of pleasurable pain.

Ultimately, her attempt at casual occlumency to control her salacious thoughts, just ended in her scar lacerating itself into burning gore— an ordinary conclusion to her attempts at the magically charged closure of feelings technique.

He was so close— so close and it felt overwhelmingly tranquilizing; whispering nothing but dreadful obscenities into her head, but the words drifting from his lips had never felt sweeter as they ricocheted around in chaos, bruising her mind.

His eyes had seized a leading role in her night terrors for two years now— and being that close to him, eyes cemented into hers— it felt like conquering fear— overcoming an obstacle; slaying a dragon.

But she's still unmoving in her certainty— she resents him. Every fiber of her being hates him. Everything pertinent beyond the physical parts of him are purely diabolical. 

The first week of classes has trudged by in leisure. She's satisfied with her full schedule of academic challenges— just hates that Malfoy occupies a seat in most of them.

She hates even admitting it to herself, but her eyes have discovered a way of finding him— of watching him; and she's learned a few things over the past week from observance that she didn't know of him before.

Her observing crammed nonsense details of how he takes three teaspoons of honey in his tea, just like she does. How he enters a room with a sense of confidence that simply towers over everybody else— despite the eyes that gape, goggle, and gawk over him. Oh, yes the stares— it has become quite blatant that people are frightened by him as much as they desire a night in his sheets; side-stepping a little too swiftly when he passes and eyes doubling in size when his vocal cords strum questions during class. She noticed how he constantly itches his left forearm, running his fingernails along the fabric that lays loosely over the smudge of Voldemort's brand. She noticed how Pansy Parkinson clings to him as if her life depends solely on touching his skin— you rarely see one of them without the other. She noted that in the entirety of the time spent shadowing him, she never, not once, detected him crack a genuine smile— only fake ones that don't quite meet his eyes. And the most curious thing she's stumbled across during her days worth of observations, is the fact that his eyes would every so often already be locked on her when her's would lure into his proximity. Sometimes it would be in the form of side-eye, or a quick glance, but she knew it was there— felt it.

However, their face-to-face interactions have been limited. Dancing around each other like ghost of past-life enemies. Awkward encounters in the mornings before class, and she's even had to use the extra bathroom that sits just outside the flat a few times because they seem to be on the same bath schedule— but it was still almost as if they didn't exist to one another; not a singular word exchanged.

-

It's Friday afternoon, just after class; and she's making her way toward the library for a much needed peaceful evening with her nose studiously locked into a book— pushing through and dodging other students as they crowd thunderously into the corridor.

Upon entrance into the study, through the grand doorframe, her eyes immediately bolt on a mop of ginger hair leaned over a book. He's aggressively taking notes. She stands there, in the doorway, for what feels like half an hour— indecisive on whether she should confront this person despite not speaking cordially for the academic week.

Finally settling on the ideology that communication is the key to resolve debacles and disagreements, she saunters over to where he's seated, fingers nervously gripped around the thick strap of her satchel that's heavy on her shoulder with books.

She slides into the chair that's across the wooden table where he sits. His eyes flit up momentarily from where he was dragging his quill roughly into parchment seconds ago; but return to their position of downward placement just as quickly as they posed upward.

She thinks for a second he's just going to ignore her presence— disregard her out of pettiness. She takes a intense breath to prepare for the disputatious discussion that is surely about to take place, preparing even further by using her wand to put a silencing charm in placement around them. Finally, she voices hesitantly, "Ron—"

He interrupts before she can get the last syllable of his name out, "I'm sorry, 'Mione," his eyes are still glued to where his quill has paused on the notes he was taking prior to her interruption, ink bleeding heavily into a glob; ruining his line of messy syntax as the pressure of the stylus is held in one place for far too long, "I am— I don't know what's gotten in to me— really. I— I bloody hate that Rita bloody Skeeter has taken it upon herself to use weak moments of ours to exploit for some form of popularity among snooty Wizarding folk. It's low, even for her."

She just stares back, dumbfounded at his apology. Ron has never been one to own up to mistakes willingly.

He continues after a moments silence, "I guess my lack of empathy caused insensitivity," he looks up now, face scrunched up into discomfort, "and I do apologize for that— I just hate Malfoy, and you painting him as some brave sort of bloke just set me off. That spoilt little bloody ninny just really drives me right mad," he grits.

She reaches across the expanse of the table, ripping the quill from his freckled hand to reveal the puddle of ink that had accumulated, "I'm sorry too, Ron," she voices in a serious tone, placing the feather flatly next to his open book, "I hate him just as much as you do— I mean how could I not? I just...I just don't want to dwell on any hatred; Ginny's right about that, it'll only make things more painful. It'll rip us apart."

He nods his head in agreement, "I know, I know— Harry says the same shite."

"And they're right, Ronald. We've already been over this. Don't carry grudges close to your heart," she pauses to think about her next words, "because I'm living with him— and I don't want that to make us drift apart. It's not something I can change, or I would."

He gives a one-sided smile, "I don't think there's much that can cause us to drift apart, 'Mione."

Her own smile that had developed due to his kind words stalls as her brain whips an unwelcome memory of Draco Malfoy pressing her into the wall of their shared common room to the fore of her mind, she clears her throat roughly to keep her facial expression mellow, "You're entirely right," she says, swallowing thickly as her throat constricts itself, throwing a half-hearted grin to reassure the red-headed wizard of her sincerity.

There's a moment's silence.

"I miss him," Ron blurts, obviously referring to Harry's absence from the castle this year.

"I miss him too," she replies, nodding her head in agreement, "We'll see him soon enough— I am certain he'll have a plethora of stories to tell about his training with the Ministry."

He nods once and then there's another moment's silence.

He revisits his homework; and she follows suit— pulling book after book out of her bottomless satchel and stacking them on the table, in preparation to begin her load of homework. They silently work for at least two hours before Ginny comes strutting up to where they're seated, throwing her own satchel down on the table. She quickly settles herself into the chair next to Ron's, across from Hermione.

Ginny evidently decides to skip the greeting part that normally occurs at the beginning of proper conversations, and leaps right into the heavy stuff.

"Have you worked with occlusion anymore this week?" she questions, as she begins to pull her own books, adding them to the already crammed table.

Hermione closes her eyes, so she can hide the way her eyes roll to the back of her head in annoyance at Ginny's persistent nagging. She's questioned Hermione at least once a day on her progress with occlumency— and the reality was that she was tired of trying; tired of having to clean up the blood from her scar, using healing charms left and right to stitch the burning skin back together.

"No," she replies curtly, placing a page marker in her current read, and closing the book.

Ginny's face falters.

"I mean...I did plan on speaking with Madam Pince while I'm in here about finding more books on the topic—for research," she nods her head forward in the direction of where the librarian is seated behind her desk, stamping away at a stack of books.

"Sounds like a right grand idea," Ginny replies warmly, her faltering facial expression shifting into one that's clearly pleased with Hermione's compliance.

She rises from her seat, and makes her way to Madam Pince's elegant desk with even strides. When she reaches her destination to the forefront of the workspace, The librarian is facing away from her, stacking books into their rightful genres; so to grasp her attention she awkwardly rings the golden bell that's placed on the edge of the flat surface. The disturbance causes the older witch to jolt in fright; and Hermione suffocates laughter down her throat, and mutters a rushed apology.

"Yes, Dear?" the librarian questions, brushing her robes down flat from where they twisted from her jumpy response to the ding of the bell.

Hermione clears her throat, "Um— yes, Madam Pince, I've browsed this library on various occasions, and there only seems to be limited texts that discuss occlumency and legilimency among the shelves," she places clasped hands on the smooth desk, leaning her weight into it for support,"I was wondering if there were any you kept off of the floor? Perhaps behind your desk?"

Madam Pince tuts, her tongue clicking on the roof of her mouth several times before she speaks, "I'm afraid the books you're looking for are locked away in the restricted section as of now," she uses her index finger to push her gold-rimmed reading glasses up her nose, "There are many books that used to grace the permissible shelves that now have homes in there— under lock and key for a reason, my dear child."

"The restricted section? Why would they be in the restricted section?" She feels her features draw together in confusion.

"War, Ms. Granger— it changes more than we'd like to admit. The headmistress has decided to remove many books from the shelves because they contain remanence of dark magic— or traces of magic that can lead young witches and wizards down the path of dark. Occlumency on it's own is a privileged form of power, however it is a leading factor in how Mr. Riddle was able to escape proper reprimand during his years here at Hogwarts," she speaks in a hushed tone, eyeing Hermione over the upper rim of her glasses.

Hermione feels the flame of hope she had developed extinguish itself in her chest, "There's no way I could slip in there after hours or?"

"No, I am afraid not Ms. Granger— your life of entitlement concludes at the doors of this castle," she speaks, unrelenting sternness in her voice.

"Right— thank you," she says, monotoned in response to the jab at her newfound life of unwanted attention. Madam Pince nods in welcome, and Hermione gives a curt smile; turning on her heel to head back to where she was seated.

Ginny is looking at her with an expression of anticipation as she walks toward the study desk, which turns into one of abundant question as Hermione retakes her seat across from her.

"Apparently there has been some sort of remodeling done to the library as a result of the war— the books we're looking for are considered to be dark, locked away in the restricted section," she's shaking her head in exasperation, "This feels like the universe quite literally telling me to go fuck myself."

Both Ron and Ginny laugh in unison.

"You could always sneak— you know...sneak after curfew or something. You are Head Girl after all, there has to be some sort of leniency in that," Ginny whispers, despite the silencing charm that's floating around their conversation.

"Oh come on— she'd have to swipe the key from McGonagall...she may be a war heroine but she's still Hermione— she'd rather die then be expelled over some pick-pocketed key," Ron torts, eyes flickering back in forth between the two witches.

Ginny just rolls her eyes, returning her focus to Hermione, "There must be an extra key lying around this castle somewhere, just begging to be found; you just have to search in the right places," Ginny whispers, packing her books back into her satchel, preparing to head to The Great Hall for tea.

"I hate to admit it, but Ron's right. I don't want to risk it, Gin" she answers, following Ginny in packing up her things.

And she doesn't, but she feels almost desperate— now there's more than one memory she needs to occlude, and the latter is one she feels all over, simmering in between her thighs.

She'd have to find a key.

DRACO

Something's shifted.

He's not quite sure what it is— can't place a finger on it's exact defining catalyst.

But her eyes are constantly digging thorns into him— studying him. He doesn't even have to see it to know, he feels her stare of her brown eyes puncturing him like shards of amber.

She should know his mannerisms like Neptune knows the sea by now, after days worth of scrutinizing his every move.

They haven't spoken— witch isn't shocking in the slightest, but the few interactions they have had have been full of awkward glances, and silent greetings.

He would confront her about her obvious staring problem but he's just exhausted.

So tired of watching people squirm when he enters a room— sliding out of the way like bloody chess pieces on a game board making way for the king as he walks down the hallway, and fuck— the rumors? Absolutely preposterous. Nothing but absurdity the queen of scandal Rita Skeeter herself is feeding the Wizarding population. People murmur to their mates about how he was the one who shot the green lightning toward the former headmaster— he even heard one that was solely based around his mother murdering his father in cold blood, using his sentence to Azkaban as an alibi for his absence. He just wants to fucking rip up the sleeve of his robes and flash the damned symbol etched within his skin up their noses— to give them something to really talk about, to really fear.

But of course, being a pure-blooded wizard, he's undergone an array of training in his formative years to remain tall when undergoing unpleasant situations— so he ignores them. The stares— the rumors, they're all pushed to the back of his mind.

But she? She sits pretty at the very front of his brain— like she's the fucking star of the show. And the thought of the pink skin of his lips sucking into her neck replays like a fucking broken record. He still feels it. He still feels the way it felt to have her pressed up against the wall, lips so close to each other— moving around one another like two magnets begging to latch or repel.

And it feels almost as fucking intoxicating as much as confusing to have her return the custom of inspecting him— something he's done to her for years in the corridors of this fucking castle.

He was only sure of one thing in all of the clutter wracking his brain— he fucking craves her just as much as he wants to destroy her.


	8. Chapter 8

DRACO

He wakes Saturday morning with sweat beading in continuous strings down his forehead and chest heaving up and down uncontrollably. He flutters his eyelids for several seconds to regain vision of reality from his interrupted slumber— sits up and slips his undershirt off in aggression, as the thin material clinging to his clammy skin was causing a sensory-overload that only added tenfold to his distressed state.

A nightmare was the culprit of disruption.

But it seems that his brain decided to direct a new film for the back of his eyelids to amuse his fucked up mind for the prior evening's slumber.

This newly developed cinematic experience had his mind inserted into Granger's perspective of the battle at the Manor, his intellect inside of her shell— lying on the cold floor of the damned drawing room, while Bellatrix furrowed her wand into the dermis of his forearm; flaying every nerve ending open with the simple mutter of Crucio under her breath. He saw himself— how fucking pathetic he looked just standing there, his mother cradling him like a child— like a fucking purposeless git, twiddling his fingers as if there was no better action they could be exerting.

Once his vision returns to reality, he runs his hands through his sweat-ridden hair, and begins the ten even breath exercise his mother had taught him to ward off the feeling of a lung-collapsing panic attack.

These reoccurring assaults on his sleep schedule had subsided for majority of the week—the horrific visions making a heavily vengeful comeback after an allotted time away from her proximity just furthers his credence that being near her doled out some sort of vaccine that fleetingly cured the illness— the tireless ailment that is his mind's habit of slowly killing him; ending his existence by picking apart segments of his brain.

She's his alternative— his possible substitute medication to the self-infliction of pain that was once the only remedy for his mind's torment; and he truthfully isn't certain which option is more excruciatingly rotten— isn't sure which one actually inflicts the most torture.

He swivels off of his bed landing roughly on the floor, hurriedly pads to the shower; eager to wash the nightmare's memory away with a boiling shower that tinges his skin red— a beautiful punishment.

HERMIONE

She's there— and it's all the same but the perspective of the scene is modified.

A scream brimful of anguish rips her confused gaze away from the ornate ceiling to the locality of the noise— and she's met with a scene of horrifying déjà vu.

It's herself— Bellatrix leaned over her limp body sprawled yet tangled on the stoned floor; the rugged witch is screaming some sort of rubbish regarding her blood status in broken outcry.

She feels a hand press into the nether of her back; turns to see that it's none other than Narcissa Malfoy. She feels her own shaking hand abruptly force itself into the pocket of the trousers she has on— feels her fingers impel around the smooth surface of a wand that definitely isn't hers— too smooth, too sleek.

"Hold it together, Draco," the Malfoy wife murmurs into her ear in a tone of voice that's begging calmness.

Her eyes automatically widen at the mention of his name, instinctively lifting the appendage that isn't cemented around the mystery wand toward her face to inspect the surface— and sure enough; she's met with a pale, veiny hand that's adorned with a sizable sterling ring.

She's merely a conscious fixated inside Draco Malfoy's body.

She's about to panic— hyperventilate, but the blood-curdling screams commence; a crystal clear cue that Bellatrix has begun her poor attempt at a profession as a tattoo artist by crucifying the smooth skin of her forearm.

She's scared, but not terrified—she's had this sort of paralysis classification of dream before— never an out of body one, but nevertheless, she's very certain this is merely another form of her nightmares, a new variety of one her brain has decided to bestow upon her.

However, she still feels fear forcibly bleed itself into her chest like spilled water on a marbled floor; it feels uncontrollable— like the emotion she's undergoing doesn't belong to her at all. She feels the pads of her fingers blister from gripping the wand so hard the skin tires and splits. She feels the want of her feet to move forward— the need to unstick the shiny shoes from the dark flooring; the phrase 'do something' screaming repeatedly in her mind— a mind that doesn't belong to her— a mind that's zeroed into the scene of her own demise unfolding in front of her.

And the foreign terror in her chest turns to inexplicable guilt as she hears it— the tail end of a phrase pouring from the ruthless witch's jagged smile, "and he'll never taint this family's purity for a wretched mudblood— I'll be sure of that, little girl," she mutters in a hushed shrill.

As the last word of the threat breaks free of Bellatrix's throat— she's jerked back to reality; relief drowning her emotion as she's no longer confined to the evil methods her own conscious utilizes to remind her that she's broken— tainted beyond restoration.

She slowly lifts from supine, letting her forehead rest on the heels of her hands as her elbows ridge on the tops of her thighs— the pressure of her palms digging into her temples steals the focal point of her thoughts and calms her heaving chest almost immediately. She stays in this fetal-like position until her back begins to pang from the slouched arch her spine is undergoing; after the discomfort becomes unbearable she calmly lets her body slip out from under the duvet, off the side of the bed; then lands softly on the tips of her toes. She palms needful into the bedding that lays awry on her four-poster from her disruptive slumber, steadying her balance that her shaking knees are giving rise to being wobbly enough to collapse.

She closes her eyes— takes the deepest breath she believes she's ever taken, chest bruising from the expansion of her rib cage; then she pushes herself from the bed, taking slow, evenly paced steps toward her cupboard.

A shower— that's what her body needs, a cleanse.

She hurriedly yanks the cabinetry of her cupboard open, pulls down a her crimson robe and a wooly towel from her shelving— practically runs toward the bathroom in hopes that her antagonistic roommate is still fast asleep. The door to the bath is closed but she doesn't let her daydreams of warm showers die just yet. She nearly slams herself into the door in urgency, gripping the handle with the arm that's free from holding her belongings— and naturally, as her luck would have it, the handle doesn't turn— locked into place like Malfoy's maddening claim on the damned shower. She leans her ear up flat on the door's cool surface to find the sullen sound of the shower head releasing water from it's spout, confirming that the room is occupied.

"Damnit!" She screams, slamming the palm of her hand on the door so hard the nerves that paint her palm's surface twinge with stinging discomfort.

This will be the third time during this week alone she's had to use the extra shower that's set just outside the flat; a shower that's not nearly as nice as the one that she's currently locked out of.

She trudges toward the exit of the Head dormitory, shoulders slouched in defeat. She clicks the door open, slides out, and lets it fall shut with a slam, hopeful that the blond wizard hears her apparent annoyance at his inability to share a washroom fairly.

She drifts toward the wooden-paneled door down the hall that's identical to the one that her living space resides behind, twists the knob open and pads into the white-tiled lavatory, setting her folded towel on the wooden stool that occupies the space just inside; and hangs her silky robe on the clothing hook on the wall just above it.

She undresses after settling, folds her clothes into a neat stack, sliding them under the folded towel on the stool; and tip-toes to the shower, swinging the curtain so it's removed from her course of action, and twists the valve all the way over to hot. She leans her bare back on the cool wall, watches as steam envelopes the small space in a matter of minutes, an indication that the water is ready for use; so she carefully steps into the humid chamber, tugging the curtain closed behind her.

She lets her forehead rest on the side of the shower, palms flat on each side of her chest, allowing the blazing water to beat down rhythmically on her shoulders; steam swirling around her, making it rather hard to inhale in the thick of the air. She shifts all of her weight onto her forehead, lifting her palms toward her face— the semi-circled shaped scars tingling ever so slightly from the heat of the water. She brings them closer to her eyes, twisting them from side to side, studying the wounds with delicate intention. The marks are now raised in smooth mounds— tinged a maroon color from the repetitive disfiguring her nails cause to the skin, blood blistering within the healed wound's confines.

The defacement that she had began working on two years ago— the scars thankfully nobody has noticed, aside from Malfoy.

She pushes herself from the wall, letting the water completely saturate her curls; causing the hair to straighten downward, practically reaching her tailbone. She squirts some of the vanilla scented shampoo from it's bottle, watches as the soapy substance pools into the palm of her hand, immediately rubbing it through her stands, creating a thick lather.

Just as she's nearly done rinsing the shampoo out from her tresses, the door, that she regrettably forgot to lock, bangs open with a loud thud. She rips the curtain around herself, hugging the fabric to her body, head peeking out of the shower's stall to get a good look at who or what has interrupted her much needed personal time. 

Her eyes are unfortunately graced with Pansy Parkinson's annoyingly symmetrical face, that's ironically tugged up on one side in a self-congratulatory smirk at the moment, "I was really expecting Draco, but this definitely makes things more interesting, now doesn't it?"

"Get out!" Hermione shrills, hugging the curtain tighter across her bare chest.

Pansy lifts her hands up in a defensive kind of manner, an already defined brow arches up further into her hairline,"Alright, alright," she tuts plainly, and in what seems like one rapid motion, Hermione's towel, clothes, and robe are all tucked in the witch's folded arms, "No problem at all," she laughs with sarcasm; and she swiftly turns on her heel, "Enjoy the rest of your shower, Granger," she toys over her shoulder, slithering through the door just like the snake she is— and she's gone, taking all of Hermione's garments with her.

Hermione just stands there, in dumbfounded shock at the Parkinson girl's child-like behavior. She had always known she was a proper bitch, but normally left her torments to sly comments about her hair and clothing in corridors— not stealing her only protection from having to wander the halls stark naked.

She hurriedly returns to the warmth of the water, finishes her shower routine; attempting to finish before too many students were up and wandering about the castle.

When finished, she shuts off the water; and exits the shower's chamber, stepping into the thin and icy environment of the washroom, her wet hair causes freezing droplets of water to glide gracefully down her backside; arms are crossed around her chest to keep her shivering to a minimum. She crosses the floor in quick strides, slowly cracks the wooden door ajar and pokes her head out, only to be met with a good deal of students chatting and laughing as they stroll in different directions among the corridor.

"Fuck," she whispers inaudibly, so she's the only one that can hear the curse.

Just as she's about to close the door— give up and wait it out, she spots a mess of white hair and green clothing among the crowded passageway— and it becomes blatantly obvious that he's located her too, as a mixture of perplexity and disgust is written all over his face.

She throws a look in his direction that begs his assistance, she doesn't even have to physically motion— as he's already striding in her direction; the echo of the dress shoes he always wears ringing above the rest of the noise in the corridor. He halts a good distance from the her, as if her blood status is highly contagious— as if he wasn't snogging the skin of her neck merely a week ago.

He raises his eyebrows in a means to question her, hands hidden deep among the fabric of his pockets— hair still damp on the ends from his morning shower.

She clears her throat awkwardly, maneuvers the door ensuring that her body is completely out of his view. Her eyes advert themselves to the laces of his shoes— nervous for some reason; and she weakly begins to stutter, "Um— yes, your little girlfriend decided it would be humorous to infringe on my shower— and she um— she kind of— well she stole my only means of cover to make it back to the dormitory without quite literally flashing everybody in the wake," she sputters out, feeling pressure from where his eyes bore into the area of her neck where his lips left a purple ring she had to glamour for majority of the week. When he doesn't reply immediately, she continues; breaking her eyes away from his shoes— planting them to his face, speaking harsher this go-round, "If you could just run to my room and grab a towel from my cupboard, the door is unlocked— I'll duplicate my notes for Muggle Studies for two weeks in repayment...just please, Malfoy. I don't have my wand— or I wouldn't be asking," she says through clenched teeth, then poking out her bottom lip in beseech as a last resort.

He still doesn't speak, hands seem to sink deeper into his pockets. He tears his eyes away from where they were glued to her throat, replacing his gaze to the stone of the wall lining the corridor.

"Please, Malfoy," she begs, once more— embarrassment oozes into her chest as her ears ring with her pleading tone.

He closes his eyes, chest heaving once as he takes a deep breath; eyebrows scrunching together as if he's pondering around a life or death decision.

And then his eyelids shoot open in an instant, he nonchalantly looks left then right— making sure nobody's watching them— making sure not a single soul notices his next move. Using both of his hands, he rips his green jumper over his head by the neck, the white button down that he's wearing underneath untucks itself, and rides up along with it, revealing the smooth skin of his torso that now seems oddly familiar to her. He throws it to her lazily, and she barely catches it through the crack in the door with a hook of her finger— she carefully slides it through the small gap in the doorframe, careful not to extend it's opening any wider; and he spends a moment flattening the white shirt with the palms of his hands, and running his fingers through his disheveled hair; an aftermath of the neck of the jumper tugging snuggly over his head.

"I don't need your fucking notes," he torts, fingers still laced through the white of his hair.

She hugs the bodice of the jumper over her chest, eyes wide and jaw agape at his small act of decency, "Uh— thank you...I—"

"Just return it," he interrupts, holding his hand out to shut her up, the sharp of his jaw clenching and unclenching as if being causally nice to her causes him physical pain that led him to grind his teeth, "and learn how to lock a fucking door, why don't you?"

"I'll be sure to work on that— preparation for the next time you decidedly hog the damned shower," she grimly replies, eye's narrowed into his.

He rolls his eyes at her caddy insult, turns on his heel; and continues his path to wherever he was headed before she interrupted his morning stroll with her school-girl frenzy, "Malfoy," she questions, intrudes his morning routine just once more; he halts and throws his head over his left shoulder, eyebrow raised in confusion, she gulps, focuses on the cold tile under her feet to stall the nervousness she feels from showing on her face, "Pansy took a robe— look, I don't care about anything but the robe— my mother gave it to me as a gift and it holds a sort of odd importance to me. I'd like to have it back— if it isn't too much of a hassle."

He just nods once in response, whips his head back straight; and continues his saunter down the corridor. She watches until the white of his untucked button down is out of her vision as he rounds a corner.

Once he's completely out of sight, she heaves herself back into the washroom and throws the knitted jumper over her head, lets it cascade over her body almost to her knees— as she does so a blanket of aromatic teakwood and peppermint encapsulates her sense of smell.

It smells like him— only slightly more prominent. She inhales, letting the sharp smell ignite her insides— the aroma makes her heart beat unevenly nimble which catalyzes annoyance to push and pull at her brain in response to her body's unsolicited reply to his fragrance.

She braces herself with an extensive sigh, and flings the door open in one fluid movement— breaks into a sprint and doesn't slow down her hurried pace until she's secure inside of her room.

DRACO

Of fucking course it would be Granger's nativity to divert him from his morning walk to the Great Hall for a peaceful breakfast.

Of fucking course she would somehow find a way to end up wearing his jumper, a way to show her bare neck— giving a front row unveiling of the veiny area that he tainted with a lust bite, slight remanence of a yellow ring still visible; albeit fair enough that you'd have to study the surface keenly to notice it— an area of her body she had been using a glamour to conceal for the week's time, surely embarrassed to have been close enough to his mouth for him to perform the ungodly deed. Of course the universe would do this to him— giving him something to dissect— to thoroughly distract his line of thinking from the calmness he had spent half an hour in the shower trying to conjure.

Of fucking course, she's fucking everywhere. She's overtaken his mind— his body, and now his damned wardrobe.

He reroutes his original track toward the Great Hall and makes a last minute decision to head toward the dungeons where Pansy was most likely still asleep.

Once at his desired destination, he mutters the tongue-twisting password to the Slytherin dormitory; and glides through the stoned wall with phantom-like practice.

Surprisingly, Pansy is perched sideways in a leathered chair, legs crossed as they hang slack over one of the chair's quilted arms; a clear goblet of what appears to be red wine is gloved in one of her pale hands. The room is vacant aside from her.

He watches as she focuses intently on the flames inhabiting the fireplace, the dark room contrasts with the bright flickers; creating an eerie sort of ambiance. She lifts the glass to her lips and takes a lengthy swig of the burgundy liquid, "It's a little too early to be drinking, yeah?" He torts, walking slowly to the center of the spacious common room to be closer to where she's seated.

"Well, good morning to you too, Draco," she replies bitterly, swirling the red wine around in the glass by moving it in a circular motion with one hand, using the other to run her middle finger's nail across the neck of her red robe, "It's only a little bit of wine— let a girl have her fun."

He blinks to make sure he isn't delirious in his vision— red? A color that normally doesn't make regular appearances in Pansy's wardrobe.

'Pansy took a robe— look, I don't care about anything but the robe'

Granger's words replay in his mind; and he narrows his eyes toward the silk garment that clads Pansy's body, "Where'd you get that, huh?" His voice grows louder with interrogation, as he nods his head toward the article of crimson cloth.

She situates herself into an upright sitting position, careful not to spill any of the liquid on the chair's surface, "I borrowed it from your little housemate wife—doesn't the color just really bring out my eyes," she coos carnally, using the flat of her palm to smooth out the silky robe's wrinkles. She notices his stern facial expression, and stands from her seated position swaying over to him, latching her free arm around the back of his neck, "Don't get your knickers all in a bind Draco, I'll return it in due time."

He jerks from her grip,"Taking things that aren't yours? How distastefully immature of you— I thought we left youthful gambles like the one you pulled on the Granger girl this morning back in year four? You know? When we were— I don't know? Children," he takes a few careful steps backward, away from the black-headed witch, "I hate her as much as you do, but we've already gathered enough negative connotations to float around our house's crest for decades— you'll return it now."

"Of fucking course she'd tattle her little troubles to you—," she shakes her head in aversion, "but no problem at all, you can return it to your little girlfriend yourself," she tugs at one of the tail ends of the robe's ribbons, let's the slinky material glide off of her body, teetering the glass of wine to each hand to allow the sleeves to fully descend; it lands on the stone floor in a messy pile, leaving her unadorned in any sort of covering, aside from a dark, lace thong.

He looks away, closing his eyes in annoyance— not surprised in the least at Pansy's will to stand confidently naked in a somewhat public place.

Her heels click evenly toward him when he doesn't respond, she latches her arm around his neck once more, tracing her nails along the ends of his hair in an intimate fashion, "I was just giving her a little taste of how it will be when she succumbs to the venom of the snake—," she takes another drag of her wine, gulping the abundant sip down her throat loudly, "If you're going to be idiotic, I might as well at least prepare the poor girl for the fall—," she whispers, and leans in to plant a tight kiss at the corner of his mouth before pulling away, and brushing past him; heading toward the girl's side of the dormitory, "Wipe the frown off of your face, Draco— you don't want to deal with premature wrinkles," she jests much too loudly over her bare shoulder with her signature ever-present smirk still painted perfectly on her lips.

"You don't know what you're on about— you're fucking mental, Parkinson," he seethes back over his shoulder in response, it's all he can muster— his palms sweaty from the witch's allegation.

He waits until the clink of her heels are out of earshot, up the spiral staircase, before reaching down and seizing the robe from the floor's stonework. He takes the seat Pansy was occupying prior, let's his elbows rest on his knees; and allows the robe's silky fabric to flounce through his fingers over and over— the soft movements causing wafts of vanilla to take over his sense of smell in warm waves of delicate oxygen; the scent uninvitedly calms his nerves— unlatching the little silver box in the back of his mind engraved with H.G. open ever so slightly, vexatiously reminding him of his amortentia in year six.

Fuck— he fucking hates vanilla.


	9. Chapter 9

HERMIONE

She's standing in front of the full-bodied mirror that's set caddied in the corner of her room— still clad in the green jumper.

Malfoy's green jumper.

The drip of her wet hair has now soaked through the backside of the thick fabric, droplets pooling into small puddles around her bare feet; the moisture creating a chilled environment that's catalyzing her jaw to tremble in response to the cold.

She's examining her reflection, eyes roaming up and down her physique in engrossed scrutiny. Studying the way the hem of the cloth brushes delicately across her mid-thigh, the way the sleeves drape easily way past her fingertips that lay flat at her side; the D.M. stitched small-scaled into the pocket that's positioned on the left of the chest.

This would all be rather precious, in a quaint teen romance novel type of way— a boy lending his specially personalized jumper to a girl in distress. In said novel's plot, this little interaction might even be the spark that begins the two main character's faultless love story— typical, yet affectionate.

But this is anything but precious— because this is Malfoy's jumper; not some fictionally delightful boy that will be careful with her feelings that's fruitfully described within the pages of a light-hearted novel that fantasies such an unrealistic romance.

It's Malfoy.

A novel written of his passionless intimacy wouldn't be on the shelves with the rest of the romance genre with happily ever after painting the endings. No, his story would be housed in the dark corners of the libraries where spiders have spun their webs— corners where the horror stories too ghastly to read enjoyably reside, dust accumulating on the spines and pages browning from remaining untouched for such prolonged periods of time.

It's Malfoy.

Pathetically cruel— savagely inconsiderate. Inhuman in all ways that define the word. He only loaned the article of clothing to rescue the students occupying the corridor from seeing her naked body— or to create some sort of debt she now owed him; there was never anything he did without some sort of crude intention or reward.

She feels odd, and out of place in the deep grassy shade of the knit— but something in the way the Slytherin green makes her eyes glow flecks of brilliant moss, something in the way the sleeves are long enough to bunch comfortably into her fist; almost perfectly made to do so, and the way his initials are embroidered bold in black into her chest— like the letters will remain branded permanently into her flesh when she removes article of clothing— like a tattoo she'd eventually regret. It all makes her feel unusual power in ways nothing else ever has. Bad—like she's still a pre-teen going through her angsts-ridden stage, getting high as the heavens from breaking rules and social norms.

Because she's never seen any other girl that graces the corridors of this castle clothe themselves in any garment that takes a normal reside in Draco Malfoy's wardrobe— not even his most customary conquest, Pansy Parkinson. It's blatantly clear that his clothing holds a high regard in his priority— never a lose thread or wrinkle in sight...ever.

It's knitted from a thick thread— not itchy, not soft, hard and rough; obvious the material costs a pretty lot of galleons—much like him in that way.

She slowly lifts a hand, the sleeve bunches loosely around her forearm as she does so; and she lets her index finger drag lazily over the fair ring of yellow that's nastily decorating her jaw, it's faded into a barely there watercolored hue; but with the way her damp hair is glued down flat to her back has exposed it into crystal view. She drags her finger lower down her neck toward the stitching— entranced by the feeling of the smooth thread that mounds over the small embroidered lettering.

She's so enthralled by the rich feeling of the fabric running under the pads of her fingertips and the teakwood and peppermint aroma surrounding her, that she hardly notices when Ginny tumbles through the doorframe rather rambunctiously with her mouth moving a mile a minute, "—Merlin Hermione, I'm starved—and I want to get to The Three Broomsticks before there's—," she stops dead in her tracks when she notices it, stumbles sideways slightly from the abrupt halt in her step; eyes traveling up Hermione's body through the reflection of the mirror, stopping at the upper left; transfixing solely on the patchwork of dark thread that graces the jumper's pocket, "before...there's a— um— before there's a wait for...um— seating," she finishes her phrase in stutters, eyebrows scrunched so roughly together they become one frangible thread of ginger hairs among her freckles.

Fuck.

She had completely blanked that she and Ginny had planned on venturing to Hogsmeade together for brunch.

They stand like this for a few lasting moments— staring at each other through the mirror's polished surface. Hermione leisurely crosses her arms over her chest, attempting to casually conceal the brand of claimed ownership on the jumper— a jumper that's already abundantly clear doesn't belong to her due to it's color pallet and size.

Ginny is the one to waver the awkward eye contact— swiftly sidesteps past Hermione and positions herself to where her backside is leaned on the side of the four-postered bed; and mimics Hermione by crossing her arms over her chest.

She exhales a breath that becomes obvious she had been holding in, "Do you want to talk about it?" She questions, eyes glued to her mary-janes.

"No," Hermione, simply replies, "there isn't much to talk about, really...Ginny— it's not what it looks like—"

"Then I won't ask questions—," she interjects, a muffled smile cracking across her face, "just like I haven't asked questions about that hideous love bite you've been half-ass glamouring for the past few days—rather unsuccessfully by the way— and just like I'm not going to ask questions about why your in here gawking at yourself in his jumper" she giggles, looking up from where he eyes were glued to her shoes, "You do know you can tell me about these things, right? I never falter to confide you of my secrets and sexual adventures," she says, a tinge of hurt undermining her vocal cords.

Hermione feels heat flush deep rose colored hues into her cheeks, "There isn't anything to tell, Ginny," she pleas, "This?" She huffs, lifting a trembling finger to the area of her neck that Malfoy's mark was tainting, and shoving a fingernail into the skin, "This isn't anything to be romanticized— it wasn't placed there out of some sort of lust-ridden frenzy— it was stamped to show dominance, to scare me...to show me he has power get close enough to rip the jugular out of my flesh with his teeth—," she drops her hand to her side, the slap of her palm on her thigh prickles the skin, "He gave me my first love bite all while whispering demented shite into my damned ear— right nasty descriptions of how he got off on watching his aunt nearly murder me! It was humiliating."

Ginny's eyes widen, "So— I take it there was no snogging?"

"No, Ginny, there was no snogging of any kind—," she hisses, "just horrifying words strung together in true Malfoy fashion," she pads over toward her bed and mimics Ginny in leaning her backside on the side of the frame adjacently, her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a breath full of chagrin, "If it were anything more you'd be the first to know, I promise."

"Hmm," Ginny huffs, "Well...if it was truly in Malfoy fashion...from what I've heard inside of these walls, he's rather good with that tongue of his—," a condescending smirk contours her lips, "The snake bite had to have supplied a little bit of pleasure or fun— or something along those lines," she says, her eyebrows raise so far up in question they nearly meet her hairline, "I mean Merlin— I've heard all sorts of shite about soul-crushing orgasms doled out by the—"

"Ginny—," Hermione seethes, interrupting her little tangent discussing Malfoy's skilled tongue; and she unlatches her arms from across her chest, and uses one of them to nudge the witch until she almost topples over from her unsteady balance on the bed, "I'm being serious. That boy does not supply pleasure to anything but hell."

"Sorry, sorry— I'm only joking," she giggles, rebalancing herself from Hermione's shove, "Get dressed Hermione— for Merlin sakes— I said I was starving," she voices through hiccuped laughter, "However, you do look rather well in that particular shade of green," she sarcastically voices through sputters of chuckle, returning the favor of a playful shove to Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione narrows her eyes at the witch in response to her little snarky comment, "Well, you look rather well with your mouth shut," she replies, muffling a smile as she rebalances herself from the blow caused by Ginny's elbow.

Ginny bursts into a fit of laughter that thankfully puts an end to the ill-subjected conversation.

Hermione pads over to her wardrobe as Ginny continues her giggles. She swings the the cabinetry open with both arms wide in dramatics, revealing her overflowing closet of clothes that companies had sent her for publicity on their line.

After pondering her collection of clothing for a moment too long, she decides on a darkened periwinkle turtleneck jumper and navy plaid skirt as appropriate attire for her brunch— Ginny nods eagerly in approval of the outfit. She slides on a pair of knee socks and shoes, and slips on a woolen blazer to face the chilled wind of Autumn; and finishes her look with a swish and flick of her wand that simultaneously dries and tames her curls while her favorite velvet ribbon autonomously fastens the top half of her locks back into a neat half-up style.

"Ready?" Hermione questions after gathering necessities into her satchel.

"Ready." Ginny replies, gathering her own satchel from where it had ended up sprawled on the floor. They head for the door in unison, stomachs grumbling and minds set on getting to The Three Broomsticks without a wait for a table.

Hermione wants nothing more than a warmed Butterbeer wrapped firmly in her palms, and to be seated cozy by the fireplace in the warm and familiar pub.

They walk swiftly side-by-side through the corridors toward the wing exit of the castle. Ginny is talking non-stop about meaningless drama that Hermione is merely pretending to listen to— nodding her head every so often so the witch gets the false sense that she's paying attention to her droning. Her brain is much too focused on the trip to Tomes and Scrolls she plans on taking later in the day to fill her brain with nonsense about who Hannah Abbott was caught snogging in the corridor on Wednesday after classes.

She's hopeful the little witchy bookstore will supply some sort of help with educational texts that will guide her through her inner turmoil of nightmares and blood-ridden failed attempts at occlumency.

They step over the threshold in unison to the outdoors and a blanket of crisp autumnal air wafts over them.

"Ginny! Hermione!"

A voice echos through the windy atmosphere.

"Hermione! Come on! Hurry!"

It echos again, and before Hermione can even remotely process any part of the situation, Ginny has her hand wrapped around her elbow dragging her toward the locality of the beckon at a quickened pace.

"Hurry!"

It sounds through the wind once again.

The voice is coming from Pavarti Patil leaning out the doorway of a Thestral-drawn carriage, arms slicing frantically through the air.

Yet another regulation set in stone after the war's terror reined over the school— carriage rides to and from Hogsmeade for all students required. According to McGonagall, having the students travel without guidance was much too risky.

Paranoia— yet another symptom of participation in warfare, a dreadful side-effect of watching your beloved student's slaughter.

"This is the last ride until afternoon— Merlin, aren't you lot lucky," Pavarti exclaims, beckoning with her hand for them to enter the small space,"We're full in here, but you two can manage a squeeze, I'm sure of it."

She and Ginny step up one after the other onto the mounting steps, ducking into the compact area of the enclosure, which has an all leathered interior; suited with two cushioned benches that face one another.

She loses her balance and halts in her step when she realizes that one of these said benches is unfortunately occupied by none other than Malfoy and his little band of snakes. Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott sit to the left of him, and the two Slytherins are going on about something that's causing laughter to boom from each of their chests rather loudly.

Malfoy, however, is clearly not in on the joke.

He's seated closest to the window, outcasted.   
His hands are clasped in his lap, head turned all the way toward the glass to the point that his neck looks rather strained— like he's purposefully avoiding the humorous conversation because it would burn his vocal cords to laugh.

Ginny uses her palm to urge Hermione further into the cart, forcing her to take the seat closest to the opposing side's window— directly across from where Malfoy is busy being the broody pariah he is.

The benches are so close together that you have to side-step through tangles of legs to get past any already seated passengers. As she plops down onto the leathered seating, her knees nearly knock straight into his; and if he hadn't shifted his own knees to the side ever so slightly, she would have done just that.

However, the slight sideward movement makes one of his knees end up in between her legs— and the compact leg space doesn't allow re-situation once seated without creating an exceedingly awkward exchange of movement; so she just settles back into the seat, and pushes her skirt down in between her thighs for coverage.

He still just looks out the window, as if her presence isn't important enough to break focus on whatever his eyes are glued to outside.

She begins attempting to cross her legs at her ankles, and pushes her legs closed together as much as possible without her inner-thighs brushing his knee.

An emotion identical to the nervous-gut feeling she gets when she answers a question incorrectly in class injects itself into her conscious as she tries her best to divert her eyes away from the way his jawline is sharpened by the tilt of his head— and ignore the way his knee is repulsively set in between in her thighs so close to her groin, like a puzzle piece finally being snapped into place.

Once everyone's settled, the Thestrals tug the carriage's wheels to life abruptly, causing the three girls to lunge forward as gravity gives way to the instability of physics.

Both Ginny and Pavarti crash into Nott and Zabini— lighthearted laughter and apologies are voiced over and over in response in immediate cordiality.

Malfoy, however, simply sticks his palm out flat on her knee, inhibiting her from sliding too far forward— like the idea of having to touch any other part of her would disease him.

He retracts his hand once the carriage is in fluid motion without giving her as much as a glance— head still turned sideways at an angle, eyes still glued to the glass.

The response was almost too smooth to be a human instinct— cat-like.

The little incident seemed to force introduction among the other four inhabitants of the carriage— Ginny and Theo are shaking hands with one another, and Pavarti and Blaise are already discussing something about the upcoming Quidditch season. Their conversations ricochet around the little cart creating a rather annoying sound barrier.

"Thanks," she mutters under her breath, secretly hoping he doesn't hear her.

"Yeah," he murmurs back, still in absolute refusal to steal a glance away from the window's now moving view.

The exchange is awkward— she feels awkward.

She decides to mimic him in zeroing her focus on the ever-diminishing view of the castle outside of the window, but after a few moments of this she begins feeling motion sickness seep into her stomach.

So, she refocuses her gaze to him. She doesn't mean to, it just happens.

He's wearing an unreadable expression on his face, one he's always worn; a face that a normal person wouldn't notice as anything important, but she knows. She knows he's using occlumency for something at this very moment, can see it in his focus— in the the vacancy of emotion that's possessed him.

Her eyes fall to his hands.

They're clasped together, and he's twisting his ring around his finger with his thumb.

Her mind drifts to images of that same ring digging and pinching into the flesh of her neck.

The carriage and the hill down to the little village makes for a very rough and bumpy ride, the benches rattling and vibrating as the Thestrals hooves pounce on and off the ground as the walk in unison.

She still focuses on his hands— now thinking about how that bloody ring would make a nice addition to the necklace that is his hands around her neck.

She mentally slaps herself for even thinking such rubbish— but she can't help it.

Her eyes dance upward; she studies the black turtleneck jumper, and pristine peacoat he has on— hoping he can't feel her eyes ripping into him.

Aristocratic. Rich. Political. The only words to describe him at this very moment.

The rattling of the bench that was annoying two seconds ago, suddenly feels—less annoying.

Her eyes are on the ring, then on his mouth, and then the ring again— and something begins building inside of her.

She feels hot— hands begin to clam up where they're placed on her thighs.

She glances over to the rest of the group, and they all seem perfectly fine. Not hot, not bothered— not anything but leaned in to one another engaging in ice-breaking conversations; completely oblivious to her newfound dilemma.

She closes her eyes— begs her body to not do this right now, but the vibration of the bench is still furthering something to brew within her abdomen, and Malfoy's mere existence is causing whatever the hell is brewing to simmer.

When she pries her eyes open— his are glued to her in puzzled amusement.

She immediately feels heat trickle into the area behind her cheekbone's flesh— feels her nails digging into the tops of her thighs with vengeance.

And from the look that develops slowly across his face— he's put two and two together; eyes smized and bottom lip grasped hold in-between two rows of perfectly white teeth.

He does the absolute last thing she expects him to do.

"Need help with that?" he mouths, the silent words seep languidly from a devilish grin.

She feels her mouth open to deny, to decline— and then it snaps shut like a box with a heavy lid, teeth clacking together awkwardly.

She should say no. It's what she should do— say no and take control of the wicked inflammation that's taking over her brain. Every single part of her is screaming no— every part except that one small fragment of herself that's throbbing and daydreaming about the way that bloody ring of his would feel pumping in and out of her.

That small part of her that wins.

So, instead of making the right choice, she looks around— makes sure nobody is paying attention to the two outcasted inhabitants of the carriage. Once it is abundantly clear that the group of Gryffindors and Slytherins are too enamored in conversation to notice anything, and that the way Ginny and Nott are leaned inward blockades their view of them completely— she lets curiosity win.

She slowly turns her head back toward him— fingernails still digging into her thighs as a mixture of curiosity and anxiety swells in her chest.

He nods his head backward— a way to beckon her to move forward in her seat; and she follows directions, scooting upward until her bottom is at the very edge.

She feels the knots of arousal tug sideways as her groin rubs smoothly across the leather of the seat— she shutters at the sensation.

He follows suit— leaning back so his hips can jut out further.

She exhales a bit too loudly when it happens— when he pushes forward and his knee connects firmly with her at the arc between her thighs; the connection that is thankfully hidden by the overlay of her skirt, and the height of her satchel that's halfway in her lap.

Her nails dig deeper, she's surprised there isn't blood seeping from her skin yet.

His mouth is hanging slack open as he trances at the area where his knee disappears under the plaid fabric of her skirt— appears focused as if he's attempting to solve one of those brain-bending riddles that sometimes appear in the newspapers back home.

He takes his index finger and drags it toward his mouth; places is vertically over his lips, and raises his eyebrows in a means to tell her to keep quiet.

She nods slowly, stealing a glance toward the group of newfound chums to make sure they haven't noticed the oddity of her behavior.

The knot that was simmering in her lower abdomen begins to boil over hot as his knee begins to make small, gentle circles around her center.

And suddenly, she melts; her thighs tighten around his. She lets herself go, immerses herself in the over-stimulation of the rattling cart and his touch that she isn't used to.

Her eyes flicker to his lips and then to his fingers in rhythmic repetitions.

His fingers are currently mimicking hers; nails digging into the dark fabric of his trousers, like this is just as a pleasurable experience for him as it is for her.

She feels nasty— but it feels good, as he continues to move his leg side-to-side in-between her trembling thighs. She watches as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and her brain is flooded with dirty thoughts of the topic she and Ginny were discussing not even an hour ago.

She lets her eyes fall shut, and her lead loll quietly backwards. It feels as if there's wooden blocks being stacked one by one, climbing slowly toward a tab of pleasure that's situated in the sky.

Just as she feels the knots begin to release and uncoil inside of her, the carriage comes to an abrupt halt— and the building blocks shatter instantly; and she feels her pelvic floor scream at her for the uninvited edging.

In a mere fraction of a second, Malfoy nonchalantly returns to his broody stance of hands clasped together in his lap, eyes focused out the window, and back leaned languid on the rear of the leathered bench.

Like it didn't happen— like his knee wasn't just pushing into her clit; like he wasn't just purposely supplying her with sinful pleasure in a carriage next to a group of their best mates.

Occlumency is one hell of a bitch— because she's left sitting there flustered, cheeks reddened, and thighs trembling.

And him?

He's simply emotionless— indifferent.

As the motley group exits the carriage's realm ineptly, and she watches Pavarti and Ginny run to meet up with Padma at the entrance to the village, she realizes she's not even sure the little escapade even happened; or if it was just a figment of her wild imagination tormenting her in odd ways.


	10. Chapter 10

"I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind."

\- Edgar Allen Poe

song: cry baby - the neighbourhood

DRACO

He knows exactly what an aroused woman looks like— knows all of the obvious signs and symptoms, has even had a great deal of experience with such visions leading to scenarios of pleasure.

But he's never gotten a hard on just from looking at one— or merely touching one with his fucking knee.

That is until now.

It took one fucking glance at her fucking squirming in her seat with flushed cheeks to notice— to make him want to wear her fucking thighs like a proper necklace, and ease the ache in-between them with his tongue.

It had been very out of character of her to consent to such an act— but she did.

And he would blame it on his imagination, but he feels it— the area on his knee that detects slightly colder in the autumn wind than the rest of him; the proof that her body reacted to him in ways she wouldn't want to admit.

The evidence that his knee had been nuzzled in between Hermione Granger's warm thighs—watching her while her brown eyes rolled to the back of her head as she got wet for him.

Proof that he had a taste of the forbidden fruit.

And being able to torture her— stopping right before her climax, feels sweet, almost like honey slowly dripping golden strings of the viscous liquid across his tongue and down his throat in graceful patterns; and it's left him with a hangover, like he's plummeting down from a drug's lofty high.

It's now confirmed.

He could see it— anybody who could successfully occlude wouldn't be left sitting there with blown pupils and trembling hands in such a secretive scenario.

She struggles with something that comes naturally to him— occlumency.

And that feels fucking sweet too.   
-

He's awkwardly tugging the frontward flaps of his woolen peacoat firmly over the fore of himself to conceal the annoyance in his trousers caused by the witch's little performance.

He and Zabini are walking side-by-side along the rugged cobblestone, and Nott, being the flirtatious bloke he is, walks ahead of them skip-hopping joyfully through the autumnal colored leaves, and blabbing his jaws about the Weasley shortcake, and how nice her hair is— how it 'really just brings out her eyes' or some load of bollocks as such.

"That's Potter's girl...I hear they're very serious— like wedding vow serious," Blaise voices, interrupting Nott's absentminded chatter.

Theo cuts his step short, and turns on his heel to face them; almost causing a collision of their bodies to occur.

"Can a man not just simply admire a woman's beauty anymore? Does there always have to be a ring or mattress involved?" He raises his brows momentarily in question, but doesn't wait around for an answer to his inquiry, turning swiftly back on his heel, continuing his trek toward the creaky door of the familiar pub.

Blaise just huffs, and shoves his hands into the steep pockets of his jacket; the two Slytherins just stand there awkwardly watching as Nott dramatically stomps away— and neither of them speak until his brown mop of hair disappears behind the swing of the door shutting.

"Fuck the attitude— I just don't want him to get his hopes up again. Girls like that don't go for guys like us— he was so broken up about about that blonde Ravenclaw when we were in year five— Yeah? What was her name? Was it...Lu— oof!"

Blaise's deep voice is abruptly cut short by a body brushing by them in haste.

The disruption causes the wizard to side-step, knocking directly into Draco's gut, which in turn causes him to scuff backwards a few steps, almost losing his balance completely.

"Sorry— Sorry!" A female voice shrills feebly, but the owner of the voice doesn't stop in her rush for the apology; a cascade of brown curls bellowing from behind her camel colored jacket as she runs past them in a blur.

"Fucking hell—," Blaise huffs, "The fuck has her in such a mad rush?"

Draco doesn't voice a response, just shakes his head slowly as he rebalances himself from the impact; watches as she yanks the pub's door open and disappears in a split second behind the brown of the wood panels.

He feels a smile tug awkwardly at his lips, eyes still glued to the door, thinking about all of the guilt she must feel; absolutely disgusted with herself— how she's probably rushing to the washroom to attempt to scrub herself clean of him with the sink's running water until her hands bleed.

Blaise yanks him from his daze of corruption by voicing a string of profanities as he notices a scuff on the toe of his dress shoe— a mark caused by the witch's hurried state.

He yanks his wand out and casts a nonverbal spell; and Draco watches as the polishing charm swipes the stain away with ease, leaving the shoe pristine like the rest of him.

"Do you think it's too early for liquor?" Draco questions half-sarcastically, as Blaise re-tucks his wand back into his jacket's pocket, "Do you think Nott is down for drinks?"

He speaks before he thinks— his brain obviously knows all he really needs is a fucking buzz.

"Is this a trick question? When is Theo not down for drinks?" Blaise torts over his shoulder as he begins to plod toward the pub's entrance, "I know I am."

Draco mimics Blaise, begins striding toward The Three Broomsticks entrance.

Once he reaches the door, he steps over the threshold through the door that Blaise has held open for him, letting the warmth of the pub wash over him.

HERMIONE

Embarrassment's weeds are growing— wounding themselves up her calves as she watches Ginny and the Patil twins walk with arms linked toward the pub.

She feels her nails begin to dig into the flesh of her palms— her body trying to alleviate the anxiety in her stomach.

She can't move, and she doesn't attempt to unstick her shoes from the ground until the bright of Ginny's head is completely out of view— her legs jolt to life in an instant, and she takes off.

The absolute high she felt only seconds ago vanishes— plummets with each stride.

Right foot.

I—

Left foot.

Hate—

Right foot.

Him—

Left foot.

She turns her head over her shoulder as she runs— watches as the carriage slowly makes its way back up the hill, purposefully punishing herself further, forcing herself to memorize the carriage that she let Draco fucking Malfoy attempt to get her off with his knee in— the aversion of her focus causes her to crash directly into somebody in her haste.

She stumbles sideways, and voices a half-hearted apology without slowing down or meeting the victim's eyes.

Even if her chest wasn't twisted into knots, inhibiting her from speaking properly— she's not in the mood for heartfelt amenities of any kind.

She swings the pub's door wide open and dashes across the wooden floor without ungluing her eyes from her oxfords, heading straight toward the washroom.

"Hermione—?"

She hears Ginny's voice call her for her— but decidedly ignores the beckon, pushing through the creaky door that acts as an entryway to the pub's lavatory.

She feels her fingernails break through the skin of her palm as she lurches messily toward one of the fiberglass sinks, gripping each side firmly with her now maimed hands, knuckles blanching stark white from the rigid grip.

Does even wince from the pain of the cool surface under her fresh wounds— is used to it.

Blood oozes from under her grasp— trickling down the sink's bowl, swirling down the drain; the swirls of red contrasted with the white sink resembles a peppermint.

How can something so ugly resemble something so sweet— something so pretty?

She takes a shaky breath, and zeroes her focus into the oval mirror— she doesn't recognize the girl she sees staring back at her through the glass.

Flushed cheeks.

Curls dangling messy around her face from her sprint.

Bottom lip swollen from her teeth digging into the skin.

Chest heaving in and out unevenly.

Fuck.

She roughly flips the water on cold—lets it run for a few seconds to let the liquid reach its icy peak.

She feels like every emotion she's kept bottled up since returning has finally become too much— she's finally bursting at the seams.

The golden girl façade is wearing thin.

Her eyes return to the mirror, "You're going crazy—," she whispers to her reflection, "Fucking...mad."

A sociopathic smile begins contouring her lips, and she laughs; the noise echoes throughout the washroom.

Hollow giggles rise from her chest that have absolutely no meaning— no meaning other than being a side-effect from complete and utter shock from her own actions.

She unlatches her hands from the sink, and scoops the cold running water into cupped palms, and splashes it slovenly across her face a few times to cool her burning, embarrassment-ridden skin.

She returns to her position of gripping the sink, eyes locked onto the oval glass— ignoring the crimson that now messily stains the white of the surface in fingerprints and brushstroke-like patterns.

She feels hot prick at the corners of her eyes as tears begin to spill over the rims— the warmth of the salty liquid mixing and disappearing within her already soaked skin; thick droplets gather at the tip of her chin in orbs around her trembling jaw.

"And you're being fucking dramatic— pull...it...together," she grits through her teeth to her reflection, blood-stained water now drips down her face onto the neck of her jumper, staining the thread.

Her legs begin to feel weak.

She leans forward pressing all of her weight into the sink's unsteady body, causing it to creak forward, ripping paint from the wall in it's wake.

She closes her eyes, and takes a few slow, trembling breaths, "Get it together—," she whispers to herself.

She stays like this, hoping nobody interrupts her meditation, that nobody walks in on her in this state— looking like a fucking lunatic.

She knows people already think she's off the deep end with Skeeter's absurd allegations and articles.

And although she's not off the deep end, she's right on the edge.

Skeeter hasn't seen anything yet.

After a few moments— once her emotions feel stabilized enough, and her chest settles itself, she pushes her weight off of the sink carefully.

Slowly, she reaches toward her satchel that ended up strewn on the wood flooring in her frenzy, and tugs her wand out with care— scared that if she makes the wrong move, she'll set herself off again.

A ticking time bomb.

She casts a few spells, watches as the blood disappears from the sink, her wounds swell shut, and the stains on her jumper seep into the fabric, leaving the braided knit looking brand new.

Just as the sink is quietly reattaching itself back to the wall, the door creeps open gradually.

Ginny peaks her head in, "You alright?"

Hermione sharply pivots to face her, grasping her hands behind her back to conceal her drawn wand.

She doesn't reply, just stares blankly— hoping it isn't obvious she'd been crying.

Ginny's eyebrows still scrunch upward in concern, despite Hermione's feeble attempt at concealing her mental instability.

She opens her mouth to speak— to lie, and say she's fine. Like she always does.

But she's tired, and the look on Ginny's face begs for honesty.

"I'm— I'm not so...sure"

It's barely above a whisper, and it's spoken through trembling vocal cords, but it's the first time she's been honest about her feelings in a very long time.

Ginny just nods in understanding, concern still written in her features.

She slides the rest of her body into the small space without opening the door any further, shutting it closed softly behind her.

She strides toward Hermione, but stops at the spot where her satchel is slouched open on the floor; she crouches down, sticks her arm deep into the opening and begins rummaging around throughout its contents.

Just as Hermione opens her mouth— about to question the witch of her actions, she apparently finds what she's looking for, removing her arm and returning to standing position abruptly.

She takes the three steps to get to where Hermione is standing in front of the sink, looking quite satisfied with herself and her findings.

"It's a good thing you're a healer freak," she laughs, stopping arms length from Hermione, sticking out her palm face up, exposing a small flask of blue iridescent liquid.

Calming Draught.

She always has some sort of healing potion on her.

Hermione slides her wand into the waist of her skirt and quietly accepts the offer, uncorking it and turning it up without a word, swallowing the contents of the bottle down her throat in one swift gulp.

She immediately feels the calmness rush through her conscious as the sweet liquid glides down her throat— and Merlin knows that's exactly what she needs.

"Thanks," she huffs, re-corking the little glass.

Ginny gives a tight-lipped smile, "I'm sorry if I've been hard on you about occluding—," she pauses, running a pale hand through her bright hair, causing the braid that sits on her shoulder to become unruly, "Things don't have to be the same to be good— you're going to be okay Hermione...everything is going to be okay, you'll figure everything out."

She reaches forward and tugs Hermione into a bear-like hug, wrapping her frail arms around her shoulders snuggly.

Hermione doesn't speak, just nods her head in agreement into the witch's shoulder—even though she isn't entirely sure she agrees.

Ginny releases her after a few moments, and places a hand firmly on each of her shoulders, a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, "Now...I've ordered us a round of Butterbeer; and your favorite seat by the fireplace is just begging to be sat in."

She gives a singular pat to Hermione's shoulder before turning on her heel to exit the washroom just as gracefully as she entered.

Hermione yanks her satchel off of the floor, tossing the empty glass into one of its side pockets, and follows Ginny into to the pub's main dining room— feeling much more composed than she did when she entered the place.

As she exits, she sees his white hair seated in one of the pub's dark corners from her peripheral— it's hard to miss: icy, bright and demanding, but the potion cursing through her veins doesn't allow her to give second thought.

They seat themselves at the wooden table next to the old brick fireplace that is currently crackling to life as Madam Rosmerta sets it aflame with a flick of her wand, "Morning ladies!" The witch greets, her pretty face plastered with a welcoming smile.

"Good Morning, Madam Rosmerta," both Ginny and Hermione respond sweetly in unison.

The older witch swishes her wand once again and a steaming porcelain kettle and two mugs apparate to the surface of the table, "Hot Butterbeer on the house, my welcome back gift— two years too long, I'd say," she blushes, and turns away before either of the witches seated have time to voice gratitude or decline the offer, and she disappears in a blur of brown robes and a furry peacoat.

She and Ginny spend the next hour or so chatting over their drinks, and picking away at a plate of breakfast sweets until their stomachs are ready to explode.

Ginny talks about how nice Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini are— how she thought she would have to march into that carriage and defend her boyfriend's honor, but the conversation was surprisingly pleasant— not a reference of the now unspoken divide mentioned.

Hermione just nods in interest as the witch babbles, doesn't mention how it really has nothing to do with them, that she could turn a brick wall into a skilled conversationalist if she wished.

She's just that easy to talk to, headstrong and little too honest, but easy to talk to nevertheless.

She spends majority of their time conversing trying to keep her eyes from magnetizing toward him— she unfortunately has a perfect view of his table from where she sits.

She's found that it doesn't matter how much distance is spread in between them— he always seems to take up too much space in any room of any size.

And the table of Slytherin boys have been rather rowdy, which has only made her struggle to not stare worsen.

Pavarti and Padma stride over from their table, and slide themselves into the two empty seats, causing both Ginny and Hermione to startle.

The twins waste no time— immediately whispering about some party that would be taking place in the dungeons this evening; her ears are listening to the conversation closely but her eyes find their way to the table of too-loud boys.

Madam Rosmerta is currently levitating a round of shots over to the table of Slytherins, the liquid spilling over the sides of the small glasses as they float through the air unevenly.

The pub owners normally kind features are scrunched upward in distaste as she eyes the occupants of the table, reminding Hermione that Malfoy did in fact use the Imperious curse on the woman— utilizing her to smuggle impermissible items into the school's realms for his task doled out by Voldemort.

Reminded of just how intelligent yet vile he is.

Too smart for his own good.

Dangerously Lethal.

She watches as he snatches one of the glasses smoothly from the air before they clink and settle in formation on the surface of the table.

Seeker skills clearly still intact.

Her eyes follow his hand as he taps the glass on the wood of the table once, the clink echoes all the way over to where she sits across the pub; and then lifts it up in the air in cheers.

But he's not making a toast to his fellow table mates, because his eyes are glued to her.

She just stares blankly, the Calming Draught still coursing through her veins enough to tackle her nerves, but she still feels embarrassment burning in the depths of her stomach.

He lowers the glass to his lips, tips it back and allows the liquid to slide down his throat, adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows.

His face doesn't twist at the liquor's burn— he licks his lips as if he'd just eaten something sweet, and it makes her wonder if whiskey was actually filling the glass or if it were actually apple juice that he spilled smoothly down his throat.

Just as he slams the little glass back onto the table, the little bell on the door that signals a new customer rattles throughout the pub, and in steps Pansy Parkinson.

Lovely.

Her dark, blunt hair sways back and forth across her shoulders as she struts directly toward Malfoy and his mates.

There isn't an open seat, but it seems neither she or Malfoy mind making the expanse of his thigh an extra seat at the table— a seat made just for her.

His eyes never leave Hermione as the dark-headed witch slides herself onto his lap, arm drapes lazily around his shoulders, using her fingers to draw designs on the peck of his chest with her fingernails.

She feels bile begin to rise as reality strikes her like a match.

That Pansy Parkinson is his girlfriend— and he didn't even hesitate before rubbing his knee in between her thighs.

That slimy cheating git.

The twins and Ginny are still speaking in hushed tones regarding the future events of the night, but Hermione had stopped listening minutes ago.

"I'm gonna head over to Tomes and Scrolls," she blurts, interrupting the girls' discussion as she rips her eyes away from the wizard's gaze.

The conversation halts as the words leave her lips.

Pavarti, who was in the middle of a sentence about some dress she got last summer stutters on her words.

"Uh— yeah, I'll meet you over there," Ginny replies, taking a sip from her mug of ever-steaming Butterbeer.

Hermione yanks her satchel from where it ended up slung over her chair's back, tugs her coin purse out and lays a handful of galleons in the center of the table. The thick gold coins add up to be more than enough to cover their brunch, ignoring Madam Rosmerta's kind offer of a free meal.

She gives each girl at the table a swift departing goodbye, and heads for the door.

She keeps her gaze on the exit as she strides, ignores the icy one she feels slicing into her.

She pushes the door open with the flat of her palms, stepping over the threshold; and once again lets the crisp air waft over her, inhaling the little village's various autumn scents.


	11. Chapter 11

HERMIONE

The rubber soles of her shoes brush through the leaves as she makes her way toward the quaint bookstore.

The Calming Draught has now successfully dissolved from her bloodstream, leaving her on edge; each step she takes shakier than the previous.

She catches a passing glimpse Ron, Seamus, and Dean tossing a Quaffle in an alleyway between two buildings, and she's hit with the realization that if she didn't have Ginny, she'd be completely outcasted.

And although Ginny would never admit it— Hermione can tell she's already getting tired of her.

Ginny's extroverted; in fact, she thrives off of being social.

It's how she's chosen to wrap her demons— by wrapping them in new friends, social gatherings, and dark pubs with too loud music; and simply ignoring them.

Hermione tried that method, but her wrapping paper turned out to be much too brittle.

She'd rather be alone.

She can see the way Ginny's mates make a point to avoid speaking to her when she's with Hermione— an awkward wave given instead of a greeting hug.

Because who in their right mind would want to be associated with the golden girl— or the now rumored alcoholic thanks to Skeeter and her antics.

She rolls her eyes at the thought of the big-mouthed woman, and is suddenly thankful she hasn't had a run-in with the Queen of the Quills or any of her walking minions since returning to school.

She steps up brick threshold, and pushes the windowed door of the little bookstore ajar with the palm of her hand; the smell of incense and old parchment immediately fills her senses.

The bookstore is dimly lit; the only lighting emitting from the front windows and candles lit sporadically throughout the shop.

It's quiet, aside from the creaky door slowly closing itself.

The shop is vacant aside from an elderly couple that are idly chatting over an open book in the far corner; cozy in a two-seated wooden table.

She's thankful for the emptiness— needs time alone to clear her head.

She finds a small table in the back corner, sets her satchel on its surface as a way to claim the space; and unbuttons her blazer, shrugs it off, and drapes it across the back of the chair.

She strides directly toward the non-fiction shelves, immersing herself into the dark rows of books.

She's mentally going over the titles and authors of texts she'd seen in previous that discuss occlumency; she runs her fingers across the spines as she searches, letting the various textures of cloth and leather bindings run against the pads of her fingertips in rhythm.

Her hand is moving at such an even pace across the books, she's startled when her fingers get caught in a cubby where a book appears to be shoved on its side, leaving a space of emptiness in its wake.

She rolls her eyes, as it's obvious the book had been carelessly slammed into the space— probably a result of a student leaving the shop in a hurry.

She lifts it off of its side with her index finger, uprighting it to align with the rest of the books. She sighs heavily in satisfaction to see the book back in its rightful position.

Then she continues in her step, but she only makes it to the end of the bookshelf before she's turning on her heel and nearly sprinting back toward the book that's clearly not in its rightful place; something about the title was compelling— written in a beautiful silver on a darkened background.

She skids to a halt on the wooden floor in front of where the book resides, and tugs it out slowly, careful not to make any noise— like what she's doing is wrong— impermissible.

She traces her index finger along the pebbled surface, studying the book intently front and back.

The cover is bound in a dark leather, almost black. The words that paint the surface are embossed in a worn silver. The title is lettered across the top, and down the spine in an identical typeface. There's a coiled snake that's wrapped itself around an ornate dagger stamped in the middle of the front's leather.

She runs her finger attentively across the gold and green embossing of the serpent, and then up along the non-english words that decorate the book's leather.

The title reads: Quod Divina Paradoxum, the lettering is bolded across the very top in a squared-off font.

She feels her eyebrows squeeze together as she continues tracing the lettering with her index finger.

Latin.

She flips the front's cover over carefully to reveal the first page; its dinged parchment is blank aside from a single phrase tucked in the bottom corner.

"Pulchritudo adducere exitus."

She lets her thumb brush over the scripted ink as she mutters a wandless translation spell under her breath; watches as the letters jigsaw around the parchment until they settle into their english translation.

"Beauty brings death."

Her breath hitches as she reads the now translated phrase.

Something in the words resonate within her.

She blinks a few times to ensure she's reading the words correctly, letting her thumb brush over the scripted font several times.

She turns and leans her back onto one of the shelves to get somewhat comfortable, and uses her thumb to skim the book's onionskin pages.

After several moments of thumbing through the contents, it becomes apparent that it's a story of a witch and unrequited love— just an old folklore that somehow ended up among the non-fiction section.

But just as she's ready to snap the book shut— return it to its proper place among the shelves of fictional tales, the entrance to the bookshop creaks open rather loudly.

And she hears him before she sees him; the click of those stupid bloody dress shoes she's grown to loathe echoes throughout the store.

And a new but familiar sensation she feels when she's around him seeps its way into her chest— icy, sharp, and over-crowding.

She pretends to busy herself, eyes glue themselves to the words written in the book in her shaking hands, even though her vision is too blurry to attain anything the words are spelling out.

The clicking gets closer, the sound getting sharper with every step he takes.

She flinches her eyes closed in preparation— already knows what's coming.

Already knows he's come to wallow in her embarrassment— to flatter himself in her guilt, or to tell her he's disgusted; that it didn't mean anything and if she told a soul he'd hex her until she was a crumpled mess on the floor.

And then he's there.

Her eyes are still closed but she feels his presence— feels that she's no longer alone in the aisle.

He doesn't speak— and her heart-rate increases as she begins panicking; maybe he's simply come in to pick up a book and she's standing in the way of the exact author he's looking for.

Her eyes shoot open in his direction, only to be met with his already studying her.

Déjà vu.

His cheeks are red— either from the whiskey or the wind.

He's mimicking her by leaning on the bookshelf's surface, except where she's leaning on her back, he's leaned onto his shoulder facing her.

He still doesn't speak, just blankly stares— an unreadable expression gracing his annoyingly faultless features.

She returns her eyes to the book that's now wrinkling under her nervously rough grip.

Moments pass like this— the air grows thicker with each excruciating second.

His gaze is unwavering; she swears she feels his observance begin to prick her skin.

She can't take it anymore.

She clears her throat, gulps, and then speaks with sass, "You know— Malfoy, you can take a photograph...it'll last a bit longer."

There's a pause.

She begins tapping the toe of her left oxford on the hardwood flooring as her nerves begin to rip her apart awaiting his response.

A smirk develops sinfully across his face, "You're one to talk about staring issues," he huffs sarcastically, crossing his arms snuggly across his chest, shoulder still pressing into one of the shelves on the bookcase.

She looks to him again, tries to keep her facial features solemn; thankful his hands are hidden out of view, "I'm not sure what you're on about."

She's lying straight through her teeth— feels embarrassment begin to attack her from all angles; because she knows she, in fact, has been studying him like she's proof-reading a dissertation that determines a passing or failing grade in an advanced divination class.

"Oh, come on, Granger— you've been studying me like one of your little projects for the past week," he snarls, but the anger in his voice doesn't meet his eyes— no, they remain emotionless.

She knows her cheeks are tinged pink at this point, matching his.

She snaps the book shut aggressively, and narrows her eyes at him, "I'm really not in the mood for this," she pauses, motioning back-and-forth between the two of them with her hand that's not grasping onto the book, "Whatever the hell this is," and she pushes herself off the bookshelf, strides past him; hopeful the conversation has come to a close.

"You sure were in the mood in the carriage."

Her shoes make a loud skidding noise as she halts in her step— she doesn't turn around though, she's scared to; remains where she stands, facing the far back wall of the bookstore.

She feels her fingernails dig into the binding of the book where she's holding it with both hands against her stomach— sure to leave moon-shaped indentions in the soft of the leather.

She doesn't reply— doesn't know how to, is too busy grinding her teeth together in anger; and he apparently takes the silence as a cue to continue his taunt.

She hears his shoes click a few times as he steps toward her, "You know...I don't believe Weasley would be too keen on knowing."

He moves in so close that she feels his breath waft through the ribbon tying her curls back— the smell of cinnamon whiskey wraps its way around her.

She gulps— if only to keep her throat form fully closing in, "Knowing what?" She questions innocently, through a shaky breath.

"That I know he doesn't satisfy you—," he whispers slowly, leaning in until she feels the heat of his body all over her, "I mean...he is your little boyfriend after all."

Now she sharply turns to face him, a spurt of confidence itching at her conscious, "And may I ask where you heard that rubbish?"

He flinches backwards at her response, face scrunching upward, "It's common knowledge that he's your little pet," he speaks matter-of-factly, eyes narrowed into her in accusatory.

"Ronald? Why would Ron—," and then it clicks, "Oh...that's rich— you of all people listening to Skeeter and her absurd allegations...Merlin—," she takes a step toward him, closing the already too skimp space between them, "If I trusted any rumor regarding you or your family that floated around this place," she lifts her index finger and stabs it into the center of his chest, "I'd have you sent to straight to Azkaban— and you and I both know I have the power to do just that," she grits through clenched teeth.

He wraps his hand around the finger that's pressed into his chest, removing it with a stern grip.

The anger she sensed moments ago has now successfully reached his eyes— and it makes her feel powerful, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"It's not just about Skeeter— I've watched you two drool all over each other for years."

Her eyes flicker from his eyes to where his hand is still wrapped around her fingers, and then back to his eyes as she processes his words.

Watched?

Her brain is spinning in circles— searching for a proper response.

She doesn't know how to respond, the skin-to-skin contact distracting her mind— she's regrettably discovered that he tends to steal her brain's ability to form coherent sentences.

He's warm.

His hand is warm.

Why is he warm? He looks so cold.

His ring is digging into the skin of her finger, the metal that was icy at first is beginning to adjust to her skin's temperature.

His features are contoured into his normal, solemn expression; and she's doing her very best to mimic the guise.

Her eyes now advert away from his, and they land to a spot on his jumper where a thread has untwined— probably from where Pansy Parkinson's fingernail nicked the stitching in her ever-so need to touch him.

"Well— I'm sure Pansy wouldn't like to know you obliged...in the carriage," she blushes hotter, ripping her hand away from his grasp, "She's always hanging off of you like a damned accessory— I guess that means she's your little girlfriend."

Her cheeks are burning now. She hates that her emotions are so easily detectable.

A smile cracks across his face, as if what she's said is funny, "Pansy is not my girlfriend," but the the smile abruptly seals itself into a straight line, "but don't flatter yourself thinking too much into what happened...I see a witch in need, and I supply."

She just scoffs.

"Maybe you're only flattering yourself thinking I'd even want to look into what happened in the first place...but you're right— I am a lady, a lady has needs— and you were there, and you're a rather easy target," she shrugs, "I mean come on, Malfoy...it's really not that big of a deal."

His jaw twitches once as he swallows her words.

When he doesn't respond, she turns on her heel; and she's gotten the mystery book back in its proper place and has returned to her seat by the time she hears the click of his shoes disappear among the creak of the door closing.

She sits in the wooden chair with her forehead resting in the palms of her hands, elbows digging into the table, for at least half an hour before she feels composed enough to continue her search for books.

The store is crowded by the time she stands.

She rolls her eyes at Malfoy's ability to ruin everything— even a quiet afternoon in a bookstore.

She ends up finding a few books on occlumency, and one that discusses magically sourced dreams. She figures it's worth a shot to do research on the topic— if she needs anything it's an undisturbed night's rest.

She pays for the books, and stuffs them into her satchel; and exits the bookstore, eyes squinted— as even the over-casted sky of Scotland is much brighter than the bookstore's dim lighting.

She strolls back toward The Three Broomsticks, her satchel, now heavier with the weight of the books, bangs awkwardly on the top of her thigh.

She grasps the handle on the pub's entrance, but is startled by an outburst of laughter.

She leans around the door to peer into the window, and it's revealed that most of Gryffindor house has apparently decided to congregate inside the pub.

She feels a dull ache form in her chest where her heart is beating unevenly.

They all look so happy— carelessly so.

Ginny is standing in a group of Gryffindor girls playing some drinking game around one of the pub's rectangular tables; Padma and Pavarti stand on either side of her cheering her on as she throws the little ball over the expanse of the table, and it lands flawlessly into one of the lined-up goblets.

She releases the door's golden handle, knuckles that were white from her grip slowly regain color.

She knows in her heart that if she enters the pub there will be an awkward silence when people notice her presence— whispers of rumors, and Ginny will be forced to be pulled from her merry game of beer pong.

So, she chooses to turn and leave.

She walks.

And she walks.

And she ignores the Headmistress' rule, and continues to walk until her shoes are clanking across the castle's stone flooring a half hour later.

There's definitely a bruise on her thigh at this point from the constant banging of her satchel's contents.

She clicks the Head dormitory's wooden door ajar, thankful it isn't locked; and she pushes herself into the common room.

Her eyes are immediately drawn to the red of her silken robe hanging on the knob of her bedroom door's handle.

She lets her satchel slide off of her shoulder on to the floor with a plop, and strides toward her room's door— in complete shock Malfoy actually got the robe back from Pansy.

"Miss Granger," an unrecognizable voice booms through the room.

She jumps in fright, almost tripping backwards over the lifted landing the kitchen table sits on.

Once she's recollected her bearings, she realizes the voice belongs to Theodore Nott, his shaggy brown hair falls over into his eyes as he leans over some sort of ginormous chest.

"Uh— hel— hello—," she stammers.

In the blink of an eye he's striding toward her, a huge grin plastered on his face, and hand outstretched awaiting an introduction.

He stops an arms length away from her, "I don't think we've ever gotten a chance at a proper introduction," he exclaims through perfect, exposed teeth.

She reaches her hand out to meet his, "No, I don't think we have."

She's been in a room alone with this boy for less than a minute and she can already tell he's sunshine.

Instead of a hand shake, he flips her hand so the dorsal is facing the ceiling; and he lifts it slowly toward his mouth, planting a soft kiss on the surface, "Theodore Nott," he introduces after removing his lips from her skin.

She giggles at the gesture, "Hermione Granger," she replies.

"Oh, I know who you are— you're famous around here," he teases, still holding onto her hand delicately.

Just then the door to Malfoy's bedchamber cracks open.

He's steps out, still dressed in all black— the dark color contrasting with his hair making it seem almost white.

His eyes connect almost immediately with Theo's hand still wrapped around hers, and they pause there for a moment too long before they advert away.

"The man of the hour!" Theo exclaims toward Malfoy, Hermione's hand falling limp as he releases his grip around it, "I was just telling Granger here how you are just thrilled—no— absolutely ecstatic to be living with her for this next year," he grins back and forth between them, eyebrows raised as if he's just told the world's funniest joke.

Hermione awkwardly shifts from one foot to the other, giving a single chuckle in response to the jest.

And Draco just ignores the statement, rolls his eyes so far back into his skull until only the whites are showing, "What's Pucey brought in this time?" He questions, motioning his head toward the large trunk Theo had been rummaging through only moments ago.

Theo immediately strides in the direction of the large chest,"Oh— the fucking mother-load," he nearly yells, clicking the leathered trunk back open.

Draco's eyes widen at the sight of whatever fills the opening, "Not bad," he voices slowly, the languid tone of voice not matching up with the expression that paints his face.

Hermione's curiosity takes over, and before she can even think— her feet begin moving toward where the two boys stand over the opened chest.

The cherry colored leather interior is jam-packed with an assortment of what looks like muggle liquors, prescription pill bottles, and little baggies of different colored powders and herbs.

She feels her face twist in a judgmental manner, "Oh— so you guys despise muggles but still make use of their inventions and stimulants to get yourselves off on the weekends," she huffs, crossing her arms.

Her eyes go wide as she realizes what's she said— what she's accused.

Thankfully Theo doesn't take anything to heart, "You party?" He questions, pupils blown awaiting her answer.

She opens her mouth to reply— to tell him that she does on occasion, but never at school, doesn't want to get too distracted from her studies; but Malfoy takes it upon himself to answer for her.

"No, she doesn't party—"

"I do," she interrupts Malfoy, and whatever bullshit he was about to spew off, "Usually only in the Gryffindor common room but— I'm not opposed to a party," she finishes sweetly.

She can see Malfoy narrow his eyes at her in her peripheral.

Theo nods, continuing to rummage through the surplus of illegal amenities, "Have you been down to The Dark Room?"

"Fuck— Nott, shut it," Malfoy grits, rubbing a thumb along his temple.

"What's that?" Hermione questions innocently, taking a step closer to the brunette boy, ignoring Malfoy's harsh tone.

His eyes light up,"A...sort of club— speakeasy if you will," he takes a seat on the arm of the velvet couch, "It's in the dungeons of the castle, a tradition started by the Black family," he nods toward Malfoy, who is still massaging the temple of his forehead as if he's suffering a migraine from hell, "It gets fucking mad down there," he chuckles snatching a bag of what appears to be cocaine from the trunk's interior.

She tilts her head quizzically, "How...how have a I never heard of this before?"

"Well...traditionally, only pure-blooded Slytherins were allowed inside," Theo shrugs.

"But still—," she sputters, arms move to cross over her chest, "I have never seen an entrance...or a door— I'm sure it's hard to miss," she feels her eyebrows scrunch together. 

This time Malfoy answers her interrogations, "Because it uses the same magic as The Room of Requirement— with a sort of twist," he runs his palm across his face in annoyance, speaks through gritted teeth,"If you have any intention of tattling— telling a faculty member about what goes on behind that door, that door won't appear for you...and I think we all know you're too much of a goody-two-shoes to—"

"Down boy," Theo voices, interrupting Malfoy's too harsh tone, "I think she gets it."

Her teeth grind at the mention of her stuck-up, snooty past, "Dress code?" she blurts, now having full intention of making an appearance at this said party— just to prove Malfoy wrong.

"Girls normally wear dresses—"

The door that leads into the corridor makes a noise as it clicks opens, halting the conversation about the secret club.

Ginny peaks her head in, a smile plastered across her features, "Did I hear somebody mention a party?"

And the next half hour is spent discussing and explaining The Dark Room— the history, the types of parties, etcetera; and she and Ginny sit cross-legged on the couch, wide-eyed, as Theo explains, and Malfoy just pouts in the background, head leaned into his palm at the kitchen table across the room.

-

She begins having doubts about her evening plans— feels wrong for vacating her Head Girl duties to go to a stupid party; but if Ginny is anything— she's persuasive, especially when it comes to a secret club of ecstasy chasers in the dungeons of the castle.

So nearly six hours later she finds herself planted on a cushioned stool in front of the Head washroom's vanity, Ginny's wand caressing over her hair as it straightens the curls into pin-straight strands. 

Ginny has all but forced her to plaster her face in a light layer of makeup, her lips painted a dark shade of crimson.

She feels silly in the tight dress Ginny has picked out for her, but there's a streak of confidence among the insecurity as it seems to create curves where curves are normally non-existent.

It's a long-sleeved velvet dress in a darkened garnet shade that matches the color of her lipsticks. It was sent to her through some budding fashion business that specializes in dresses suited for night-time adventures for wizarding women, and it had been folded in the bottom of her trunk collecting dust as she never thought she'd have an excuse to wear it.

And since the dress holds no pockets, she has her dark velvet ribbon threaded through the opening in her room key's bow, and it's knotted around her neck resembling a necklace.

Ginny has on a similar dress, but hers is in a deep royal blue, and her normally braided hair is curled up into a half-up hairstyle.

Neither of them look like themselves.

Once Hermione's thick hair is successfully straightened down her back, they're ready to go.

They step single file out of the bathroom to be met with Malfoy and Theo casting a feather light charm on the trunk full of stimulants.

Theo spends at least five minutes gushing over how 'beautiful' they look— how they'll fit right in with the crowd, and Malfoy just stands back, eyes locked on the wall behind where she and Ginny stand.

He's changed clothes.

His lose black jumper has been traded in for a tighter one that hugs his torso, exposing the outline of his lean arm muscles that twitch as he fiddles nervously with sometimes in the pocket of his fitted dress trousers, but he's still wearing those same dragon-skin dress shoes he always wears.

In unison, the four exit the flat and make their way down toward the castle's nether realm, and it gets colder with each floor they ascend.

The corridors are dark— it's hours past nightfall; the only lighting is coming from the half-waned moon peeping through the framed windows that line the stone walls.

Malfoy still hasn't spoken a word, jaw locked tight.

He and Theo awkwardly carry the large trunk— each holding onto the handles that are nailed to each end of the box.

She feels nervous— nervous that her old tendencies will get in the way of allowing her to enter the party— that somewhere inside of her the old Hermione hides, waiting and wanting to tell Mcgonagall of the ungodly acts of The Dark Room.

But as they round a sharp corner in the dungeons, they are met with a golden door, with an arched frame— one she's never seen before. It's large enough to be seen from the other end of the long corridor, etches of snakes decorate the door's frame.

She feels a sort of relief flood through her as they near the entrance and the image of the door remains in tact.

The goody-two-shoes Hermione is in fact, dead.

As they reach the entrance, the snakes begin to twist and unwind themselves, and the door splits in two— slides open just far enough for them to slip inside single file.

"Holy fuck," she hears Ginny spurt as they enter.

Hermione is just speechless.

It's packed— familiar and unfamiliar faces dance around in her vision.

It's dark— the only light casted from two large chandeliers that hang from the arched ceiling; the glass ornaments that swing from them are emitting a golden-toned hue of light that make the environment seem rich and intimate.

Malfoy and Theo have made their way into the crowd of people, still lugging the trunk— Hermione watches as the top of Malfoy's head is swallowed and disappears among the sea of dancing students.

Adrenaline inducing is the only way to describe it— the feeling the place gives you. Hermione feels it inject into her bloodstream, and from the look on Ginny's face she's feeling it too.

She feels every doubt and ever worry melt away— and without thinking, she's got Ginny's hand wrapped in hers marching directly toward the long bar that she keep catching glimpses of through the gaps of dancing people.

"Holy fuck— Holy fuck—"

Ginny is nearly screaming dodging around people as Hermione drags her along carelessly.

They reach the oak-wooden bar, and Ginny takes a seat at one of the stools, but Hermione strides directly behind the elongated table where a large selection of liquors are set in formation along a wooden shelf.

"What are you doing?" Ginny yells over the music.

She ignores the question and swings at one of the long-necked bottles of some sort of whiskey and tugs it down— lifts it urgently to her lips, tilting it back and taking a long swig.

She feels the liquid burn down her throat and slosh warmly in the pit of her stomach, she cringes at the chemical flavor, but the maple aftertaste has her lifting the bottle back to her lips for more.

Then Ginny's beside her, grabbing her own bottle of liquor, titling it back in unison with Hermione as she now takes her third shot.

She wants to feel careless— she wants to be careless.

And she's telling herself over and over in her mind that this want has nothing to do with Malfoy's prudish image of her.


	12. Chapter 12

tw: description of drug use, alcohol use

DRACO 

That fucking dress. 

The fucking dress that has a bottle of Fire-whiskey glued to his lips as soon as he and Nott get the crate of Pucey's black-marketed finds situated behind a couch.

The fucking dress that has his eyes immediately dancing around the crowds of already drunk people looking for her— her and that velvet ribbon that's strung snuggly around her neck. 

The fucking dress that has his mind so occupied that he doesn't even notice when Pansy laces her fingers through his free hand, and plants a drunken kiss on his neck. 

HERMIONE

Her face is numb. 

The music is loud. 

Alcohol is grinding through her veins— her conscience is grinding away with it. 

And she's only graced the doors of the place for a little over two hours, and she's already figured out the word dark in the title isn't referring to the lighting— or the color of the walls. 

No— it's referring to everything else but the damn lighting— or the damn walls. 

It's the feeling— it's almost like magic. 

It's the dark of the liquor that's sloshing around in the chiseled glass bottle as she dances. 

It's the dark of the hair that's begun to curl up around her face as she sweats Ginny's straightening handiwork away. 

It's the dark of the mascara that's rubbing down underneath her eyes— the dark of her lipstick staining the circumference of the whiskey bottle's rim. 

It's the dark shadows of bodies moving, dancing—in corners, on couches— hands all over— lips attached to other lips, to necks, to shoulders— to other body parts. 

It's the way the golden hue of the chandeliers have been dimmed to darkness— flashes of green, red, and blue strobes replacing their light. 

It's the deep bass of the music that's rattling heavily in her ears as she moves off-beat, with Ginny's arm strung heavily around her shoulders. 

It's the way she doesn't feel like herself in this very moment— and that's exactly what she's craved— what she's needed. 

Her mind has ventured toward a certain red-headed boy several times— and she finds herself thinking about how he'd roll his eyes at her right now— how he'd call the place pretentious, and tell her to stop acting sloppy— that her dress is too short— heels are too high. 

And she finally settles on the feeling of relief that the certain golden trio link is probably crowded about a pitcher of Butterbeer in the Gryffindor common room, bantering around the topic of Quidditch games with Dean and Seamus.

And she should care about the empty promises they've made regarding their friendship status — should feel bad— but she just simply doesn't.

Her brain is much too occupied by a certain wizard she keeps catching glimpses of among the bodies— hard to miss that head of white. 

And she's annoyed with herself because she's hardly let her mind wander far from him, despite the alcohol in her system. Knows he's currently sitting in one of the dark corners in this very moment, slouched on one of the velvet chaises— a glass of whiskey hanging from his fingers— knows he's been sitting there since they arrived. 

She watches him refill his glass several times— watches him lift the shallow chalice toward his lips for swigs of the bitter liquid until it's empty once more. 

She watches him puff smoke from his lips in feathered ghosts, and inhale the vapor back in through his nose. 

Art— she thinks. Of course he'd make drug usage look like art. 

But it isn't until she catches Theo tugging a little baggie from a hidden pocket of his Slytherin green blazer that she really begins to focus— to zero in. 

Zeroes in enough that she feels her feet still— a rigid body amongst the the moving. 

And Ginny's arm slides off of her shoulder as she turns to face Angelina and Cho to form a semi-circle that excludes her— all three scream the words to the song that's blaring— one that Hermione doesn't know. 

She just stands— hands wound tightly around the neck of the whiskey bottle. 

Watches as Theo tosses the zip-lock to Malfoy across the expanse of the dark coffee table, and he catches it with the inside of his index and middle finger like it's a poker chip— not a bag of poison.

Curious, she feels her feet stumble forward, squeezes her body through the sweaty mass of people— just a few steps, she thinks, just enough to waft through the crowd to get a better view. 

Without hesitation, Malfoy dumps the powder on the surface of the shiny coffee table— the substance forms a mound. 

He then sifts through the drug with his thumb until the mound is flattened— and he shifts in his seat, rips something from one of the pockets of his black dress trousers.

It's silver— shiny— catches in the light of the strobes. 

A switchblade.

He uses the sharp of the blade to move the powder around the table— she takes more drunken steps toward where he sits—magnetically. 

And by the time she reaches close enough to see the table's top in clear view— the powder has been situated into three perfectly even lines.

He licks the excess powder from the knife's blade— and she swears she sees blood draw from his tongue. 

He carelessly drops the blade on the table— and wastes no time before leaning down, folding his body in half— and she watches as the three lines are vacuumed up off of the table's surface through his nose— and the table's top is emptied clean by the time she opens her eyes from a slow blink. 

And he comes up like he's been suffocating—holding his breath under water for minutes— eyes closed, mouth opened wide, head tilted back in pleasure— veins become visible on his neck in the strobing lights as the drug digs its way through them. 

And she doesn't know when she moved in so close— so close that she's made her way out of the crowd— exposed— close enough to hear the sigh of relief he lets out over the music— close enough that her shins are brushing across the short table where his silver pocketknife is still spinning from where he had tossed it aside in haste. 

She swears he's moving in slow motion— the music that was rattling in here ears becomes merely background noise. 

And in that moment he's beautiful— beautiful and damned— shattered glass. Art. 

And she's never had the urge to take part in such— but as he takes the pad of his thumb and wipes the area in between his upper-lip and nose, eyes still closed— it's like watching all of his demons being brushed away— watching his broken pieces be sewn back together. 

She wants it. She needs it.

And then his eyes snap open into hers— pupils blown so wide she can see the outline of the blue irises through the darkness. 

"Granger!" A slurred voice yells over the music.

And it isn't until then that she realizes that Malfoy isn't sitting alone.

"How are you liking your first dungeon party?" 

An arm slings itself over her shoulder and pulls her in— she breaks away from Malfoy's gaze and her eyes are met with a crooked-smiled Theodore Nott, liquor and smoke heavy in his breath. 

"It's great!" She yells honestly in response, her words don't quite enunciate due to the alcohol making her tongue feel thick. 

"Sit, sit," he tugs her down with him to the chaise that sits on the opposite side of the table from where Malfoy had been sitting— and by the time Theo has her pulled all the way down onto the velvet of the couch, he's gone— and he's taken his knife with him. 

Like he'd never been there in the first place. 

Her chest tightens slightly— she ignores it. 

Theo unlatches his arm from around her—sets his half full glass of liquor on the surface of the table, and reaches into his jacket, and once again tugs a bag of snow-colored powder from its realms— she finds herself wondering how many of those little bags he has on him. 

He lifts it toward her, and raises his eyebrows in a way that questions if she wants any.

She should say no— admit she's a rookie when it comes to drug usage, but she feels her neck crack as she nods her head in response.

So he does exactly what she watched Malfoy do only minutes ago— situates the powder into little lines across the table's surface, and he uses wandless magic to slide one over to the spot on the table in front of her— she gulps thickly.

He goes down first— she watches as his dark curls brush the table's surface as he leans parallel to the wood, and his jawline tightens as he breathes in through his nose. 

She's shaking at this point— nerves flaying in every inch of her. 

She leans to set the bottle that had become sweaty from her nervous hands on the table— but before she reaches far enough, a hand wraps firmly through her hair around the back of her neck and yanks her backwards— her spine goes flat against the couch's hard backrest—she loses grip on the bottle, and it crashes and splatters across the floor at her feet.

And she feels his breath fan across the side of her neck— the cold of his ring through her curls— mouth on her ear as he leans over the wooden-edged backrest— hand still wrapped firmly around her nape, "Don't be fucking stupid, Granger," he slurs, you can hear the heavy intoxication in his voice. 

"What does that make you then?" She turns into him, face so close— too close. 

"A fucking idiot—all of us in here are fucking stupid— You? You are not fucking stupid," he grits— releases his grip from around her neck rather roughly, and makes his way around the couch's side. 

It all happens so fast, her heart doesn't even have time to increase speed in anxiety before the anger sets in. 

Theo's bloodshot eyes switch back-and-forth between the two— obvious he's seen the interaction that just occurred. 

And once Malfoy has successfully made his way around, he reaches across her lap, uses his fingers to dust the line of cocaine out of its lined-up formation— messily brushing his hand it side-to-side. 

Her brain stutters on thought as something clicks— the memory of Malfoy licking the knife.

Cocaine can be ingested in various different ways— Yes, she remembers reading it in a muggle psychology text. 

And Malfoy's index finger is currently coated thickly in the drug.

And she doesn't like to be told what to do. 

Without a bit of hesitation, her hands are both wrapped around the expanse of Malfoy's wrist—she hastily lifts it to her face— sticks his index finger inside her mouth— rubs the pad against the surface of her gums.

He doesn't resist— doesn't flinch like she thought he would. 

She looks into him— his pupils dilate even further— mouth hangs agape as he watches his finger slide unhurriedly out from where her lips are wrapped snuggly around it. 

He looks shocked— almost Intrigued. 

And then she looks to his other hand— which is now now gripped into the arm rest of the of the chaise, wrinkling the velvet cushion until the blood has fled completely from his knuckles. 

Her eyes flit back toward his face, and although the lighting is dim— she can see the way his jaw is trembling in anger— or trembling in something else rather. 

She drops his hand, and it falls limp at his side. 

A bitter flavor takes over her taste buds as his finger pops out of her mouth— her gums go numb as the drug mixes with her saliva. 

She knows the effects won't be as immediate taken orally— or extreme, for that matter— doesn't hit the bloodstream as hard or quick.

It's numbing, but it's not enough— she's too impatient. 

Too willing to prove herself. 

That bloody Gryffindor pride. 

And she's quickly realized that the little bit of drug she's ingested will be just sufficient enough to disappoint her body— to edge it to a point of getting a high fleetingly, and crashing in just a few minutes.

And there's a line left from Theo being interrupted mid-intake, and it looks rather appetizing right about now.

She looks back up to Malfoy who is now standing with his hands in his pockets— an unreadable expression on his face as he shakes his head slowly at her— like he knows exactly what she's thinking of doing. 

And in less than a second, she's palms flat on the table— inhaling the drug.

It doesn't burn like fire, it burns like salt on ice— a sharp stinging pricks at the inside of her nostrils. 

She feels the powder mix with saliva and then slide languidly down her throat— and then it's just a numbed sort of euphoria. 

She feels her face twist to mimic the one she saw Malfoy present only minutes ago—   
understands exactly why he looked so relieved to have the drug coursing itself through his body. 

And she swears she feels it— the dopamine accumulating in synapses all throughout her brain, melting away any emotion except for happiness. 

She comes up slowly from where she's leaned over the table— only to be met with Fay Dunbar's long face twisted into a smirk, camera in hand that flashes blue so brightly in her eyes she flinches backward into her seat.

"Oh that's quite a sight," she speaks through evil laughter, "Our Golden Girl alcoholic is now doing drugs with Death Eaters?" 

Hermione's facial expression twists to one of shock. 

"What? Did you forget I'll be interning with The Queen of the Quills herself once I complete my N.E.W.T.s?" The witch voices proudly. 

"Oh, what an accomplishment," Theo chimes in sarcastically, eyes roll so far into the back of his head you can almost hear it in his voice. 

"Well," Fay snoots, "anything will be better then whatever job the Ministry decides to throw at you lot— being from a long line of Death—"

"Give it!" Hermione interrupts whatever vile thing the girl was about to say— instinctively jumps across Theo's lap toward the camera that's wrapped in her long fingers, but the tall girl only lifts it above her head out of her reach— and she falls into Theo's lap, who helps her sit back upright with firm hands, and a pat on the shoulder. 

"No so fast—," the lanky girl tuts, bringing the camera down from above her head cautiously, and hugs it into her chest in a protective manner,"Rita is going to just love this one—," she drawls, "It'll make a very nice addition to next week's paper, don't you think?" She speaks matter-of-factly, admiring the camera and running a fingernail along its lens.

The confidence that Hermione was feeling from the drug only moments ago has taken a sharp turn— anxiety is now swelling in her chest at an alarming rate.

She opens and closes her mouth a few times— dumbfounded in the act of conjuring a proper response— the drug is begging her to jump across Theo's lap and rip every last hair straight out of the girl's big head. 

But heels clicking loudly over the music disrupts Hermione's vile image of Fay Dunbar's hair wrapped in her knuckles, and a moment later Pansy Parkinson is sliding herself over the arm of the couch to stand in-between the group of herself and the Slytherins, and Fay— who now looks a bit hesitant in her word as she flinches backward a few steps— but Pansy's heels only click forward after her. 

"You know, Fay," the black-headed witch speaks, then pauses— takes a quick sip of wine from her glass, and gulps it down, "you've always been a real sort of bitch," she berates, drawing out her words in emphasis. 

And she yanks the camera sharply from where it's hugged into Fay's chest, and the girl doesn't fight it— lets it be torn from her grasp with ease; eyes wide, and mouth hung open at Pansy's audacity. 

Pansy clicks the film roll out with her red nail and tosses it into the red wine that halfway fills her glass— ruining it past repair, and then hands the now empty camera back to the now trembling witch, "You've just broken the first rule of The Dark Room— No. Fucking. Cameras."

And then Blaise and Goyle appear from the shadows— almost like clockwork. They storm around the outskirts of the seating area— and have Fay in a firm grasp under her arms as they lift her off the ground in seconds— the girl's camera slips from her hand and slams into the flooring with a thud. 

Hermione watches in shock as the girl kicks and screams in anger— but the two Slytherin's grasp doesn't let up until the tall golden doors slide open just enough for them to toss her out, out of Hermione's view. 

"You're welcome," Pansy coos from across the coffee table's expanse, a hint of sarcasm undertones her words, "You wouldn't have wanted that," she motions toward Hermione's face, "to be posted all over in the tabloids."

Hermione flinches at her words—uses her finger to wipe at the excess cocaine that had left a ring of white powder around her nose away— and she nods her head in reply— tries to smile, but her face ends up in an awkward smirk due to her confusion in the witch's almost-kind act. 

Pansy then vanishes back into the crowd of dancing people, and she's left with a still-dumbfounded Theo, and an emotionless Malfoy. 

And then the music becomes much too loud— the people become much too close. 

She finds herself searching for an escape. 

And the poison in her veins is causing her to act rather impulsively— so, she finds herself sitting in the grass overlooking the Black Lake half an hour later. 

It's sprinkling— the air damp from the soon-to-be-raining weather forecast— drizzles of wet collect in her eyelashes. 

The sky is black, aside from the moon that hangs rather delicately from the sky— resembling the scars that taint her palms. 

There's an unopened whiskey bottle that remains untouched leaned against her thigh— doesn't know why she grabbed it on her way out— even thinking about consuming any more alcohol makes her gag reflex trigger. 

Her eyes scan up her legs that are currently stretched out in front of her. 

Her satchel full of books did in fact end up causing a bruise; an ugly blue circle left behind on the center of her right leg. 

She uses her thumb to press into it— focuses on the dull ache the pressure causes to alleviate the nausea she feels; the reminder that there's hangover from hell looming just around the corner. 

She's angry she didn't get to experience a high— Fay Dunbar's little escapade immediately ruined her buzz.

And now she's coming down— the drug is mixing with the alcohol in the realms of her stomach, and she feels claustrophobic even though she's alone. 

But she isn't alone for long. 

Malfoy is sure of that. 

She's holding her hand up to the sky— one eye closed as she analyzes her palm—compares the moon-shaped disfigurements on them to the moon— looking for the beauty in her scars, when she hears the footsteps. 

They're loud, and evenly paced— so she know's it's him before she sees him. 

"You're not setting a very good example being out here after curfew—," he jests, "Aren't you supposed to be Head Girl or something?"

And that annoyingly smooth voice is confirmation that it is in fact, him. 

"I'm starting to think you're stalking me—," she speaks with her head forward toward the lake, jerks her hand back down into her lap. 

He stops in her peripheral— a few feet away, hands deep in his pockets as usual; but he doesn't voice reply. 

There's a long silence— the only sound coming from the wind causing the lake to stir in an aggressive manner— waves crashing on the muddy shore. 

But her brain is moving too fast to have a silence this long when in the presence of another being— and the mixture of chemicals in her system forces words out of her that she doesn't mean to say out loud, "For Merlin's fuck— you're a mysterious one, aren't you?"

Still no response. 

"Coming out here— disrupting my peace, being all broody—," her words are slurred, "and not speaking,” she turns her torso to face him. 

She sees his eyebrows scrunch up as he ponders her words, "And you're a drunk one, aren't you?" He says in a voice that's supposed to mimic the drunken, high-pitch of hers. 

He tugs his wand from his pockets and swishes it sharply through the air— the bottle of whiskey transfigures into a glass of water, "You should drink that," he says in an even tone, one that instructs. 

And then his eyes shift to her bruise— he takes a few steps toward where she sits, "What's that from?" He motions toward the blue that stains her thigh— a facial expression is painting his features that look unfamiliar on him—concern. 

She would normally lie, but she doesn't feel a need to at the moment— knows she already looks half-mad at the moment, "My satchel— was heavy with books...and the strap is a bit too long—"

"Featherlight charm?" He interrupts, raises his eyebrows, as if her not using a charm on her satchel's weight is the most absurd thing to ever occur. 

She shrugs, unsure of a response. 

He uses his already drawn wand, and casts a healing charm. She feels the bruise shrink away on her thigh until it's nothing. 

She turns away from him, focuses on the white caps of the little waves that have taken over the lake's surface, "It felt good."

He moves to sit beside her then, but not too close— at least an arm's length of grass sets in-between them still. 

Something gold and shiny slips from his pocket as the fabric of his trousers fold in his movement to situate himself— a key. 

An accidental misplacement. 

He stretches his legs out, and leans backward into his palms to get comfortable. 

"You're a masochist," he huffs, once he's settled, "Would have never guessed that one." 

"I am not!" she squeals, shoves his shoulder like she's conversing with a mate— and then cringes, and retracts her hand abruptly as she realizes who she's actually sharing a conversation with. 

His lips tugs at a smirk in response to her gesture, but just barely. 

She shifts awkwardly— wishes the poison in her system was still strong enough to block the emotion of humiliation. 

"Drink," a demand. 

He nods toward the glass of water that still sits beside her thigh— untouched, sparkling in the moonlight. 

A large part of her wants to decline— but she is rather thirsty. 

She grabs it, and lifts it toward her lips— chugs the liquid down in seconds; and as she sets it back to the grass— it autonomously refills itself back full of water. 

He nods his head toward the glass again— instruction to repeat the action. 

She wraps her hand back around the glass, but pauses before she picks it up, "Why are you being somewhat nice to me?" She questions. 

He jerks his eyes away from where they had landed on her lips, shifts in his position uncomfortably.

"Because I know you're too fucked to remember any of this in the morning." 

There's an emotion that she can't quite read through the intoxication laced in his voice. 

"Right," she says, before repeating the process of gulping the second glass of water down. 

Just then the sky opens up— it's light rain at first—and then it's pouring thick droplets beating down before she even has time to process the weather's change. 

They walk silently back up toward the castle— but the silence isn't awkward. 

It's comfortable. 

Her dress clings to her body as the rain drenches the velvet fabric, heels are clutched in her knuckles. 

As soon as her now bare-feet step over the threshold of one the castle's side entrances, Ginny's voice rings in her ears, "For Merlin sakes, Hermione! There you are!"

She runs in their direction— not one hint of surprise in her facial expression that she's just witnessed her come in from the pouring rain with Draco Malfoy— which annoys her in more ways than one. 

She's drunk— so personal space has flown to that back of her mind— she throws her arms around Hermione's shoulders as she reaches where she awkwardly stands, giving her torso a too-tight of a squeeze, "Let's have a slumber party!" She slurs into Hermione's neck. 

Hermione just lets it happen— both arms hang at her sides as she nods in agreement with Ginny's suggestion— doesn't feel like sleeping alone tonight. 

Malfoy takes this adversity as a cue to continue in his step— and he's made it halfway down the corridor back toward the party before Hermione notices, "Wait, Malfoy," she hears her own voice slur as she pries an intoxicated Ginny off of her wet clothes,"Tell Pansy I said thank you— for...for whatever that was— that she did."

He nods his head once in response just before he rounds the corner, shoes squeaking from the wet of the rain. 

And it isn't until she's in the Gryffindor girl's dormitory, in bed beside a passed out Ginny, that she tugs the little golden ornament from the waistband of the pink and white striped pajamas Ginny has loaned to her. 

A key— his key that he misplaced in their time by the lake. 

A key that she stole from him. 

But it isn't just any key— because this key? It's a key that's coveted by all bookworms that walk the corridors of this castle. 

The letters reflect in the moonlight emitting from the open window as she inspects it closely in her palm. 

This key reads: Restricted, in bold lettering across its bow. 

DRACO

It's only been two hours since he'd seen her wrapped in the Weasley girl's arms. 

His brain has still not been able to get the fucking dress to pry away from his mind. 

He had gone back to the party for one reason— and he's currently watching that one reason burn in the fireplace of the Head dormitory's common room. 

Fay Dunbar's camera. 

The muggle electronic is causing the fire to crackle rather loudly, as he sips on a fresh glass of whiskey— knows he won't be getting any rest for the night. 

He's standing with his hand grasping at the fireplace's mantle while watching the plastic melt and bend under the flame's heat. 

And then he looks up into his reflection that the darkness is causing the large glass-framed painting above the fireplace to emit— sees the dark circles even in the dimly lit room. 

"You're so insanely fucked, it's not even funny," he voices to nobody but his reflection.


	13. Chapter 13

(TW: blood/gore)

DRACO

His sleep isn't plagued with nightmares for the next four days. 

And he would normally be thankful for this, but he's hardly slept a fucking wink in that time.

The glamours his wand casts are barely able to cover the blue rings that wane under his eyes— coffee is barely able to keep them energized enough to stay open. 

And he knows his appearance is beginning to show his mental state— his imperturbable persona is wearing extremely, extremely brittle. 

The rumors are piling up high and mighty about him and his family— he's heard at least two new theories on his fathers whereabouts just this morning at breakfast alone. 

And he's never been more thankful for the ability to occlude, or he'd probably be well on his way to a reservation for a room in the psych ward at St. Mungo's— or worse, Azkaban. 

He needs a release. 

And that fucking godforsaken key?

That key that his father had made for him?

It's gone. 

Vanished. 

Missing. 

The last part of his father he had.

A key that fits snuggly into the hole that unlocks the doors to the restricted section of the library.

His father had it replicated for him years ago because, quote unquote, "He'd be utterly damned if they kept his son out of any part of that blessed library."

What an entitled fucking fuck. 

He's searched every pocket in every article of clothing he owns, every drawer— every last nook and cranny of that damned Head dormitory. 

He can't place that last time he'd seen it. 

And he wants to ask her if she's seen it— but he's scared to— scared she somehow remembers his moment of weakness through her drunken state— has avoided her at all cost for the past few days. 

It would be like her to find a key such as that one and return it to Madam Pince like the good girl she is. 

Oh— he'd love to find out information like that. A reason to be vile— a reason to get close again. 

But he can't help but thinking that this is the universe's way of completely ridding his father from his life. 

-

It's now Wednesday. 

He's seated in Muggle Studies, his last class of the day— she sits two rows before him. 

Her ribbon— her velvet ribbon— has her hair tied messily into a bun— neck fully exposed above her white-collared shirt as she leans down to quill her notes into her parchment. 

And although he can't see her face— he can imagine the dark curls that loosely frame her features. 

Can imagine the way her tongue is curled upward around her lip as she focuses on her penmanship. 

Can imagine the way her eyebrows scrunch themselves together as the professor drones on about muggle things she’s already most likely fully educated on— topics she's merely pretending to be interested in for her scholarly image and its sake. 

And his vivid imagination is making it rather hard to focus as his quill lazily dangles in his fingers instead of drilling into the parchment penning notes.

Not that he takes notes anyways— prefers to read the chapters discussed after classes in his room— alone. 

Better absorbs the information that way. 

And it isn't until Professor Ludo flips a slide on the old rickety projector and a video of two men throwing punches at one another, that his attention is drawn away from the witch's pretty nape. 

And that must be the universe's timing too. 

HERMIONE 

She swears it takes four days and countless amounts of hydration charms for her body to completely recover from the hangover.

And she's still dealing with a massive headache in Wednesday's Muggle Studies class session as the newly appointed professor struts around the front of the overly-windowed room. 

He's blabbing words that boom around in her aching head— droning on and on about Muggle law, and common ways Muggles break this said law— underground fight clubs, drugs, and other things of the like. 

Malfoy sits two seats behind her.

She knows this because he's always early—always seated comfortable in his seat by the time she makes her way over the classroom's threshold— something she's felt a sort of competition with— getting to class the earliest, before him. 

He's always won. 

And she's been extra paranoid of his presence this week— despite it being scarce. 

Has barely seen him outside of class since she watched him round the corridor's corner after their unpleasant rendezvous on the wet grass. 

Not even in the Great Hall. 

Only the ghost of his presence remnants in her memory of the past few days— books left on their common room's coffee table, peacoat slung over one of the kitchen's chairs— and his scent. 

That fucking teakwood scented cologne he wears— or, it could be his natural bloody scent for all she knows. Would only make sense for him to smell like a fucking rainforest in the midst of a rainstorm naturally. 

Two years ago she'd be thankful for his absence— but it has only driven her to become more curious of him. 

That riddle she can't figure out. 

Because although she can't remember everything clearly— she remembers the small acts of kindness he performed. 

The water. 

The healing charm on her bruise. 

She rolls her eyes, huffs quietly at the thought— the quill in her hand dangles mid-air instead of taking notes. 

She's arduously attempting to focus on the words the professor is spewing off— tongue wound upwards around her lip as her brain attempts to ward off her unwelcome thoughts about the boy. 

She shifts in her seat attempting to make her body look less awkward— less guilty, as the key feels heavy on her thigh. 

She swears she feels his eyes bruising through the back of her neck. 

She keeps mentally slapping herself for even being concerned with such a thing— so juvenile, she thinks to herself. 

Of course he hasn't a clue she has the key. 

But it's not just her shaking thigh that keeps reminding her. 

Because the key— his key— is currently burning a hole in the pocket of her uniform's skirt— she swears it. 

She hasn't let it out of her sight since that night— always on her— even sits on the edge of the sink during showers and baths. 

It feels like lead in her pocket at the moment. 

She feels immense guilt for stealing it— that good girl mentality has obviously not strayed too far away from her conscious— and it's so much guilt that she hasn't even put the key to use. 

She's studied its blade— the notches. 

Knows it is an authentic duplicate for the key that rattles in the librarian's robes on a daily basis— hidden from curious student's eyesight. 

But she just can't seem to force herself to use it. 

In fact, she hasn't stepped foot in the library at all this week— hasn't even cracked open a book unless it was to finish an assignment or prep for the day's schedule of lectures— not a word has entered her mind that didn't have some correlation to her studies. 

Sits quietly at the table in The Great Hall— scurries through the hallway with her head hung. 

Hasn't felt up for it— being social, reading— things she'd usually throw herself into to make herself feel better. 

Rather she's thrown herself head first into papers on Advanced Potions, and readings on Muggle Studies. 

And because of her refusal to read for pleasure, the multitude of texts she retrieved from Tomes and Scrolls sits caddied on her nightstand in a neat stack— untouched. 

The pretty leather-bound one discussing magic-sourced nightmares adorns the top of this said stack— like it's purposely taunting her. 

She's studied its cover— the indigo blue binding and it's golden-embossed lettered title. 

But she hasn't opened it— can't dare to for some odd reason— can't bring herself to crack its leathered spine.

It feels like a last resort— diving into research. 

And she isn't sure what will happen to her sanity if she isn't able to solve the riddle of her brains inability to occlude, and it's habit of never-ending cycles of horrific nightmares.

Nightmares that have been doing nothing but becoming more severe— more horrific, as time ticks by. 

And when class is dismissed— she finds her eyes wandering among the body of scurrying and chattering students to find that head of white. 

Watches as he vanishes beyond the doorway in the blink of an eye— a messy blur of black and white. 

She's beginning to feel as if he's purposely avoiding her. 

DRACO

The ripped parchment is folded in the pocket of his jacket as he walks to meet Mcgonagall in her office on Friday afternoon. 

Today is the day he's meant to venture into London per his task from the Ministry. 

And up until Wednesday, he had been dreading these trips demanded of him— told himself he'd end up at a pub downing muggle beers, bullshitting a two page parchment on how intellectual muggles are in their craft of alcohol. 

But he's made other plans now. 

Plans that intrigue him— could help medicate his fucked mind in ways self-infliction can't.

HERMIONE 

Friday after classes, she and Ginny walk quietly through the corridors— plans to study together through the evening in the common room of the Head dorm. 

This is how it's been for majority of the week. 

It's like Ginny knows not to ask questions about Hermione's quiet treatment— knows not to push anything. 

She hasn't even asked about witnessing her drunkenly entering the castle on Saturday morning...or early Sunday— sopping wet from the rain with Malfoy on her heel. 

Hasn't asked questions about the key she absentmindedly examines randomly throughout their private study sessions —Nothing. 

Not a single interrogation. 

Which is very unlike Ginny. 

They settle themselves into the common room— Malfoy is nowhere to be found. 

She feels thankful— plans on telling Ginny about the key at some point during the evening. 

Knows her persistent nagging is exactly what she needs to push her to use it.

Ginny sits with her legs criss-crossed in between the couch and the coffee table— books spread open across the wooden expanse of its surface. 

Hermione settles with her back on the arm of the couch— legs straight out in front of her, rested on the center cushion. 

She flicks her wand toward the marbled fireplace, "Inciendo," is mumbled under her breath.

And the flames crack to life— illuminating the curtain-dimmed room an orange hue that's comforting. 

They study quietly for at least two hours— or Ginny does at least. 

Hermione focuses on the orange and blue flames that dance around the fireplace's mouth— attempting to convince herself to just suck it up and use the damned key.

What's the harm? 

And by now the sun has settled behind the rows of mountains— the room is now almost dark, despite the flames dancing, casting light in ripples, and their wands that lay flat on the table with a Lumos illuminating their ends. 

They've just finished dinner— some sort of vegetable casserole Ginny had wanted to make the muggle way.

Ginny is transferring notes from a book into her journal when—

"Ah— Fucking Arsehole!"

The witch's voice causes Hermione to jolt— the noise breaking the calming hum of the silence. 

She huffs, "My quill is out of ink— do you happen to have any?" She questions, but doesn't hesitate before reaching towards Hermione's satchel and tugging over into her own lap.

Hermione leans up from where she's resting to decline— but Ginny's hand is already deep in the realms of the leather bag. 

She sinks back into laying position— prepares for what's coming. 

Knows the questions are about to spew out of the witch like a shaken can of pop. 

She sees the freckles fold across the witch's face in the shadows as her eyebrows draw together— slowly retracts the book from the contents of the satchel. 

Hermione just sinks farther and farther into the couch's cushion— tries to keep her face sullen, pretends to quill into the journal that lays open in her now folded lap. 

There's a moment of silence— the cracking fire is the only sound that breaks up the hum. 

The witch clears her throat,"Ple—," she swallows, "Please tell me you're reading up on magic-sourced nightmares as a form of light reading?"

Her voice goes up a few octaves at the end of her sentence— cracks over the last two words as emotions bubble.

She plops the thick book onto the coffee table with a 'thunk', "Please tell me that?"

Her voices is now questioning— pleading. 

Eyes beaded with concern. 

Hermione knows exactly why she's reacting this way, and knots form in the base of her stomach. 

Because of Harry's visions— his nightmares, they led to nothing but disaster. 

Hermione swallows in response, "Ginny—"

"No, Hermione— I've kept my mouth shut all week— let you deal with your shit— dealt with your antics," she stands abruptly, the papers that were in her lap flutter and scatter across the floor— that pleading tone still in her vocal cords, "Just— be honest. I don't have to nag if you're honest."

"—drop it," Hermione finishes her line of thought, "Just drop it," she says again, there's no pleading in her voice— a demand.

Ginny ignores this request. 

"You know Harry had nightmares in the midsts of Voldemort's terror— mhm— they were repetitive," she crosses her arms over her chest, tightening her robes around herself.

"Yes— I know—"

"Are yours repetitive?" Ginny interrupts, voice urgent.

Hermione just nods. 

"Have they been happening since the war?"

Hermione shifts, back presses firmly up against the arm of the couch— mimics Ginny by crossing her arms over her chest. 

"Yes."

It's a tight-lipped reply, quiet— a barely-there answer; Hermione is honestly surprised Ginny even hears it. 

But it's all it takes for Ginny to quite literally explode. 

She goes into a frenzy. 

Spends at least ten minutes pacing the floor that expands in front of the fireplace— voicing concerns, what this could mean. 

How it's connected to Hermione's inability to occlude. 

How this could be an omen of tragedy. 

She questions her on the dreams— Hermione gives her details of the visions; how they have all been set at the battle that occurred at Malfoy Manor. 

These details only send Ginny further into shambles. 

Hermione can hardly blame the girl— she's best friends with Harry— could only imagine loving him above a platonic level through the terrors. 

It only makes sense to act in such a way when you find out another loved on is enduring a similar trial. 

But then she's calm— her words slow, "How could you keep this from me? From Harry— I mean I know Ronald's a prick, but he— he still...cares for you."

Hermione just closes her eyes— reaches into her pocket and rips the key from the little ripped stich of her pleated skirt— tosses it on the black hardwood of the coffee table.

Offers the witch a token of distraction. 

It topples back-and-forth a few times before settling face up— 'Restricted' in cursive engraved across it's curly bow settles in plain sight. 

The two witches study it for a moment.

Hermione's eyes flicker to the back of Ginny's head— watches as it tilts in confusion, and then snaps straight as it clicks. 

"Is that the key you've been toying with all week?"

"Mhm," Hermione replies, nods her head slowly— cautiously. 

In a split second the key is cradled in Ginny's hands, "Holy fucking shite," she squeals.

"Shhh," Hermione hushes, stands and joins Ginny's in studying the key in the light of the fire.

"Where'd you get it?" The witch questions in a now hushed tone, "There's no way you stole it from Madam Pince— she watches her ring of keys like a hawk," she says, eyes goes wide as if she's mimicking a bird watching prey in the night. 

"Malfoy," Hermione whispers, "I did steal it— he dropped it I— I don't know why he has a copy, but—"

Ginny eyes expand into perfect circles,"Oh— Fuck—," she interrupts, "he's going to quite literally obliterate you." 

There's an excitement in the witch's voice— excitement that gives Hermione jolt of adrenaline. 

She swallows thickly before replying. 

"Not if he doesn't find out."

DRACO 

It's nearly five when he makes it to King's Cross.

Just in time for rush hour. Of course. 

He dodges and pushes through families and business men and women, endures crying children, steps in gum at least three times— and worst of all has to use Muggle money to buy a mediocre meal at a little Italian restaurant in the outer part of the city. 

Needed something cheap— the rest of the wad of cash the Headmistress has supplied him for his trip gets stuffed back into his jacket's pocket— needs it for later. 

And the only thing pushing him through these two hours of dealing with the noise of the city is the folded parchment in his pocket— the lousy scribble of a street number, and that last ray of overcast sun beaming dull through the sky, indicating that nightfall is just around the corner— and what happens where he's going, only happens in the shadows— in underground dungeons— where pain is doled out like candy for fun— where aggression is accepted— welcomed, even. 

And as soon as the grey sky has dimmed to evening, and the night chill has set in— he's found the street. 

The exact alley— the exact door. 

It's hidden behind a brick wall— a layer of ivy grows thick over its front. 

If Professor Ludo hadn't mentioned it during class— he wouldn't even notice it as a door at all.

He turns the knob with a gloved hand, it clicks open. 

He cautiously steps through the doorway once it's opened wide enough for entrance. 

And before he even has time to take in his surroundings, he's tugged sideways, and pushed flat up against the wall. 

His head bangs into the cement so hard he sees stars— large hand wounds itself into the front of his black button down. 

"The fuck do you think you're doing here, pretty boy?"

HERMIONE

It's now nearing eleven in the evening. 

Ginny has long made her way back to the Gryffindor dormitory. 

And due to Ginny's nagging— Hermione now has full intentions of making her way to the library after curfew, after everybody has made their way to their beds— is just patiently waiting until Malfoy has come in for the night, and locks himself in his room. 

As he normally does. 

She's changed into a set of pajamas— blue silk shorts with a matching button up top. 

And the key? It's tucked into the waistband of the shorts snuggly. 

Awaiting use. 

It's quiet. The fire has died down to nothing but small crackles of flame— but the heat still lingers in the large room, making for a cozy environment. 

She's made herself a cup of tea— is currently stirring honey into the mug with a spoon when there's a loud crack that booms throughout— the noise lengthens into squeals and whips, bouncing from wall to wall. 

She startles— jumps up from her sitting position, and the mug flies from her hands and bounces off of the cushion of the couch onto the floor into a scattered mess, only adding to the conundrum of sound. 

She grips at her chest— a weak attempt to calm her speeding heart rate.

Her vision dots— becomes unclear as her body adjusts to her standing position.

She gulps— whips around— careful not to step on the glass as her hand shoots out to retrieve her wand that was sitting beside her on the couch.

Preparation to defend herself from whatever had apparated. 

But her vision snaps to crystal as her eyes are met with the source of the sound. 

Heart plummets to the floor at the sight of him. 

And the blood. 

It's the first thing she notices. 

His hair— shaggy, is tinged pink in places— sweaty, clings to the side of his temples. 

Eyes shine silver through the darkness— through the crimson as the whole right side of his face— as it's coated in a thick layer of it— the blood. 

Lip swollen and cracked at the corner— crimson spills over his lips down his chin. 

Eyes both swollen and bloodshot. 

His hands are gripping at his stomach— blood glides over where they're clenched— drips into puddles on the floor where his wand lays.

She's frozen— absolutely frozen. 

He reaches and leans into the kitchen table for support, tongue darts out, cleans some of the blood that coats his chin, "Don't ask questions— I see your brain churning, just keep your fucking big mouth shut, Granger. Got it?"

His words are slurred together— as if talking alone is painful.

But her healer instinct kicks in. 

"How fucking idiotic can you be?" Her voice is loud, shrill, "Apparating in such a state? You could have splinched."

Just a few healing charms. She thinks to herself— just a few could have him brand new. 

"You're out of your bloody fucking mind!"

Her feet are moving before she has time to think— strutting toward him— hand sets into casting position as she moves. 

He slowly shakes his head— stumbles backward at her sudden movement, "Granger—" 

It's just her name— but it's a demand, spoken through a low growl that tells her it's dangerous to step any closer. 

"Malfoy," she breathes out in her halt, tries to sound as cool as possible, "You're bleeding."

He huffs— and then does the absolute last thing she expects— a wide grin forms across his face. 

His normally white teeth are coated in red— he looks rather horrifying in this moment— eyes roll to the back of his head as throaty laughter booms through her ears. 

It's not a laughter caused by humor— No, it's anger behind those vocal cords. 

"I'm well aware that I'm bleeding— but how observant of you."

His tongue swipes across his teeth— before the smile fades back into his customary solemn expression. 

She takes a step closer, like his tongue is beckoning her forward, "What happened to you?"

Her voice is shaky— spoken through broken breaths. 

He steps backwards away from her, grunts with every step, "That's really none of your business, now is it?" Voice still slurred with pain— head tilts sideways— he winces every time he steps on his left leg. 

"You show up to our dorm after getting your ass handed to you— and you're going to tell me it isn't any of my business?" She gulps, "What the fuck happened to you?" She repeats, teeth grinding with each word.

"Unwind your fucking knickers, Granger— I asked for this." 

There's no shame in his voice— no hint of embarrassment. In fact— there's a smirk tugging at the corner of his bloody mouth. 

"And you call me a masochist?" She tightens her grip around her wand, "That's sounding a bit like the pot calling the kettle black in this moment, isn't it?"

"Smart girl's got idioms?" He taunts back.

She's got him cornered now— closing in. 

"Smart girl's also got healing charms," her voice shakes out. 

They're close now— closer than an arm's length apart. 

"Is that right?" He clips, eyes narrow through the crimson staining his face. 

"Yeah, that's right," and her wand lifts into the air.

"Episkey—," She screams.

But she barley gets the incantation out of her mouth before his hand is wrapped around her wrist— the warm of his blood causes him to almost lose grip as he tugs her into him with a jerk that causes the spell to dodge him and go awry— leans down into her so their faces line up. 

The charm shoots pink light diagonal and it bounces off of the ceiling before disappearing into the floor. 

But she's not focused on that. 

She's focused on the rattling sound that has taken over her hearing— echoing throughout the room. 

A light metal sound clanks around at their feet.

His eyes shoot down— her eyes follow. 

And they both stand there and study it— the key. 

There's a silence. 

It's deafening— the only sound is the dying fire and drips of blood hitting the stone. 

And their eyes shoot up to meet one another's at the same time— but his aren't icy like they normally are. 

No, they're hot. 

The portal to hell forms behind those irises of blue.

Her chest tightens along with his bloody grip around her wrist— her grip around her wand loosens at the strain, and it clatters to the ground with his. 

"I'm so— I'm sorry."

He doesn't reply— lip snarls— breathing deepens— eyes somehow bore even deeper into hers. 

"I'm scared."

The words tumble from her lips— rushed, as his breath fans across her face. 

So close— she still smells that teakwood scent through the rusty smell of his blood. 

"You should be."


	14. Chapter 14

tw // blood, gore, depressed thoughts, suicidal thoughts, knife/blade use 

please take these tw seriously, the content in this chapter could seriously be triggering. 

song: eyes on fire - blue foundation

HERMIONE

The grandfather clock that towers beside the common room's entrance door strikes half past eleven. 

They haven't moved— the fire has completely died down, and it's left the room in darkness; making the current situation all the more terrifying. 

Their chests are heaving in synchrony as uneven puffs of breath waft in the space between them— and the knot welling in the base of her throat is inhabiting words from forming as his grip remains firm around her forearm. 

His lower spine is pressed up against the wall, body curved in a way that evens his line of vision with hers.

Fear is suffocating in this moment— smothering her into bits of nothing. 

And she's not sure if she's more scared of him, or the fact that he's bleeding from— everywhere it seems— pools of red have accumulated around their feet; sticky, and warm on the bare of her soles. 

The hand that is free of her touch is gripped in the fabric of his black shirt that seems to be missing a few buttons— it folds open in places where his torso is crunched over, revealing the snowy skin of his chest. 

His cheeks are turning blue— purple bruises ring around both of his eyes that glow icy through the dim of the room, and he's shivering— the lack of blood is causing his body temperature to decrease rapidly. 

But she's the one that feels frozen— mind is only circling ways to tame the dragon long enough to get ahold of her wand.

Heal him. 

Her brain is begging. 

He's going to bleed out— he's going to die. 

Then his jaw clenches— he opens his mouth, lips crack open in new places due to dryness— blood dribbles down his chin, "I—"

"Let me— please," she gulps, "Let me heal you," she blurts through the silence, voice crackles in-between the heave of her chest. 

His mouth snaps shut in the midst of her interruption— eyes narrow further in vexation. 

She yanks her arm downward once— an attempt to loosen his grip, "Please," her voice is low, dripping with plead as she takes a step back. 

But it isn't enough— he doesn't budge in his firmness.

"You know I've been looking for that?" The strand of hair that hangs free over his eyes sways with the puff of his breath.

She breathes in and then out sharply, nails dig familiar into the flesh of her palms, "No, I didn't know—"

He releases his fist from where it was wound in the fabric of his shirt— stretches to wrap it around the brink of her waist; sure to leave a handprint of crimson on the pale blue silk of her pajama set's shirt. He tugs her forward sharply. She stumbles over her feet— chest presses into his; other hand is still wrapped solid around the circumference of her forearm at their side. 

"Did you know it was mine? When you took it—" he grunts in between his words in pain, "Did you know it was mine?"

He's speaking through clenched teeth— voice is horse from ache. 

She closes her eyes, bites her bottom lip for a split second before answering, "Yes."

To the point. Curt— to get it all out in the open; to get it over with. 

She opens her eyes to his now blue lips split into a smirk; his chest rises and falls in a gasping breath, "When?"

"The lake— after the party," she squeaks, shakes her head slowly. His pupils are constricted into a peck of black in rage, "It fell from your pocket, and I—"

"So you—," his grip around her forearm loosens ever so slightly, "You remember?”

"Your kindness?" She breaks in, knows immediately what his mind has lured to. 

Knows he'd be embarrassed of his out of character performance. 

His stern facial expression falters with her words.

"Yes, I remember— the water," she gulps; his hand digs slightly into her side, "the healing charm on my bruise— I remember," voice goes up an octave on the last word despite her straining to keep an even façade, "Don't worry. I haven't given much thought to it."

It's then that his grip completely falters from her wrist— the area cold with its newfound freedom; both of their hands fall languid to their sides in unison. 

She attempts to step backwards, but his grip is still taught on her hip. 

"What business do you have with a key to the restricted section anyways?" His eyes dance back and forth across her face. 

"What business do you have having a replica of the key to the restricted section?" She taunts back. 

His lips twist as he ponders her word, "Let me reword my question," he tilts his head, and his neck cracks, "What business do you have stealing my fucking key to the restricted section?" 

She swallows thick. 

"Books," she huffs out; that strand of his hair sways again from her breath, "They've locked away a good many that used to be on the floor in the library— and I need access to them," her voice comes off a bit more urgent than she intends; he senses it. 

"Hmm," he hums, "What kind of books are you looking for?"

Her lips purse, "Books in the restricted section, of course," she narrows her eyes, speaks with sarcasm.

He gives a dry laugh, "What genre of books are you looking for?" He elongates his words as if speaking to a child.

His voice isn't questioning, it's almost— accusing.

Her jaw clenches, "Well," she begins, tilts her head upward to seem less small, "That's really none of your business."

He nods to the floor as if he agrees, and then looks up to her through lashes, tongue curls over his bottom lip before speaking, "These books you sought after," a dimple forms in his cheek as a smirk takes over his face, "They wouldn't happen to have anything to do with your complete failure at occlumency, would they?"

She's bites so roughly into her cheek, the skin gnashes and blood spills iron over her tastebuds, "No," she lies. 

"You're lying," he taunts through a grimace. 

She lifts her hands and presses both of her palms into his chest; attempts to pry herself from his hold. It doesn't budge, "Stop it!" 

His grip only becomes more snug; arm wraps completely around her waist— not painful, just firm.

"I don't know what you're on about," she exasperates through barred teeth.

"Oh come on, Granger. Don't play dumb—you've been running around this place mad— like a chicken with its head cut off," he drawls, "and you've been carrying around an occlumency book. Always tucked under your arm— but never, not once, have I seen it opened. What's that about, huh?"

Her ego quivers— the fact that he knows; has seen her struggling with something he's quite the expert at. 

Her heart is pounding loudly in her ears as she searches for a response. 

"So, you watch me then?" 

She decides to take the focus from her— turn it back on him. 

His eyes shoot up into hers. His bottom teeth grip onto his top lip before he speaks, "No. I'm just curious—," he lets out a breath, "No," he repeats sternly, like he's trying to convince himself. 

"I mean you've basically just admitted it," she states smugly.

It's then that he decides to release his arm that's snaked around her— her body's gravity, pushing away due to her hands pressed into his chest, topples backwards a few feet; she lands flat onto her backside on the sharp of a wand. 

She doesn't even have time to react before he's in her face again— on all fours in between where her legs are stretched out in front of her. He reaches his arms around her, sets his palms flat on the floor on each side of her hips; next to where her hands are spread behind her. 

"I haven't admitted anything, Granger,” he whispers; face close, "Not yet at least."

She swallows; feels vulnerable in this position he's put them in. 

"Maybe I have been watching you," his breath fans through her curls, "I tend to be drawn to things that linger in shadows, and that's exactly where you've put yourself over the past few days," he laughs, "You're not quite yourself, are you?"

She opens her mouth to question— decline; anything to stop this degradation, but he interrupts. 

"I won't lie though, it's been rather interesting," he tilts his head as if he's studying her freckles. 

"What?" She breathes out; confusion is heavy in her voice, "I don't—"

"Watching you writhe. Watching the Wizarding World's renowned Golden Girl completely crumble." He breathes in, "Watching you struggle with something I'm rather good at," he grunts, "It seems to be compensating for the years of academic turmoil you've caused me."

He shifts in his weight, lifts a hand and brushes one of her curls that had gone awry back out of her eyes; tucks it behind her ear— a trail of electricity is left in his touch's wake. 

"Right," she replies curtly, sees the falter in his posture as he resumes his position on all fours; knows he'll go unconscious soon from the lack of oxygen flow to the brain.

"I could help, you know? With occlumency." 

The words aren't sincere. No— they drip in malice; enough spite to send absolute anger coursing through her. 

"I don't need help— especially not from you," she seethes, features scrunch in disgust, "Even if you were serious— I would never accept your offer."

"And why is that?" He replies, eyes still scanning her face. 

"Because, I hate you," she sneers, doesn't hesitate. 

He smiles, but only for a second, "I don't think you do, not really." 

"I do."

"I don't think you hate anybody."

"Why not?" Her voice is clipped, throat tight. 

"Because you're you," an insult. 

The challenge is heavy in his voice; obvious he's egging her on.

"No, I do. I hate you. I'm certain of that," she whispers back; the words come out urgent. 

"Do you want to kill me?" 

His question causes her eyebrows to clench inward; jaw to hang slightly agape.

He raises his eyebrows, expecting an answer. 

"Sometimes," she answers somewhat honestly; not really thinking before the word tumbles from her mouth. 

He snorts from his nose; inches closer, "Really?"

There's an excitement in his voice. 

She nods quickly, "I think....," she pauses; gathers her thoughts, "I sometimes think a lot of my problems would cease if you weren't here."

"Problems?"

"Yes, problems," she rolls her eyes, "You're not the only one with demons worth hiding, Malfoy," she grits, "And sometimes I think you're the root of mine."

He flinches; eyes close, but quickly regains composure, "How would you do it?"

"What?"

"How would you do it? How would you kill me?" He's speaks at a whisper, eyes still dance back-and-forth across her face. 

She ponders this; the boy that crouches before her, bloody and beautiful, dead by her hand. 

The nightmares would probably stop; her need for occlumency would be gone. Her problems would reign trivial; a test three days in a row, too much honey in her tea, or no seats in the library. 

Things she could handle. 

She'd finally get her year; the year that she planned on having before she was thrown into this mess with him. 

"Magic would be too clean— too easy," she speaks with her eyes narrowed into him, voice cracks as her vocal cords give into her nerves. 

He nods like he agrees, "I could see that, yeah."

She's stunned by the casualness of his tone. 

There's a silence, a long one. 

He breaks it; that smooth voice that's currently rugged due to his physical state, "Show me."

She opens her mouth to question; he interrupts, "Show me how you'd do it. If not magic, then how?"

"I don't—," she shakes her head in confusion. 

"If you've thought about it— if you hate me so much, like you say you do, I'm sure you have a method planned out in that big brain of yours."

Maybe this could be therapeutic. Getting it out. 

She sucks her teeth before replying, "Fine," she torts, says the first thing that comes to mind, "Knife," she cuts, "I'm sure there's some symbolism in that."

He lets his bottom lip slide in between his teeth before shifting in his weight once more; reaches into the pocket of his trousers and tugs that now familiar switchblade out to the space in between them. He holds down the little button on its front, and a blade slices out of the ornate body with a rather satisfying swishing noise. 

Her eyes widen. 

"This should suffice," he nods his head toward her, a gesture for her to take it. 

"You always have a knife on you?" She questions.

"Yeah. They're quite useful actually."

She reaches forward; their fingers brush as the knife's weight is shifted between them. 

And as soon as her fingers have successfully wrapped themselves around the cold of the metal, she speaks, "This is ridiculous."

He doesn't reply— eyes her hand and the blade carefully; the silver reflects in the moonlight that's beaming through the window. 

Now that she sees the knife up close, she sees the familiar design of ivy winding its way up the body in an embossed gold. 

"Now what?" She questions innocently. 

"Now you show me what you'd do."

Her heart rate increases, still loud in her ears. 

There's something exhilarating about this; knife wrapped in hand, Malfoy begging for its tip to be pressed into the skin of his throat— a distraction good enough for her to use the wand she grasped in her fall— to heal him. 

A wand that isn't hers— a wand that she's tucked into the waistband of her silk shorts during Malfoy's little escapade; hidden behind her back, out of his view. 

She presses her now free hand flat into the hard of his chest, "On your back then."

He obliges, they move in unison as she levers with him until she's straddling his waist— it isn't awkward, they flow like water in a slow stream; languid, creamy movements. 

She places her palm flat beside where his head lays; curls fall over into his face. Their chests are heaving up and down, synchronized huffs fill the silence, "You have problems, you know that?"

"More than you could ever imagine," he lets out a shaky breath; pauses, and then,"Well, go on then."

She exhales once before lifting the knife to the top of his throat— their eyes are locked; his pupils dilate as soon as the cold blade hits the skin of his neck. 

"I'd—," she stutters on her words as one of his hands glides up the expanse of her thigh to rest on her hip where it bends over him. Ring cold on the warmth of her skin. 

"Go on," he smirks, sees the effect he clearly has on her— has the upper hand despite their position.

"I'd do a vertical cut," she drags the knife down the skin of his throat slowly— delicately; puts enough pressure on the blade to leave a trail of red skin in its wake, "Horizontal would be too fast— too quick; this would be slower; doesn't hit any arteries. I think you'd enjoy the pain." 

She pauses the blade at the base of his jugular; feels his heartbeat vibrating quick through his neck.

And the power she feels in this moment— it's indescribable. 

His eyes roll shut as if she's supplied him some sort of pleasure, "And I'd let you."

She jerks the knife away, "What?"

"I'd let you do it. I’d let you kill me.”

"Are you insane?" She sits up straight, still on her knees straddling across his abdomen.

Now. She thinks. Do it now. Heal him. 

He strains his neck; lifts his head up from the ground to voice a response— but before he has time to answer, she has the wand out of the elastic of her shorts, pointed right at the center of his forehead; knife clatters to the stone flooring as she releases it from her grasp. 

"Petrificus Totalus!" Her voice echoes throughout the room, booming from the ceiling. 

She feels his body go rigid under her thighs as the binding spell strings his muscles into stone. 

"Oh fuck you, Granger," he seethes before the spell reaches his face. 

She wastes no time; rips his shirt open with her hands— the remaining buttons fly all around, rattling across the floor like coins fallen from someone’s pocket. 

Her breath hitches at the sight of him— a gash, thick and precise, spreads along the bottom of his abdomen.

"Merlin— what the hell have you gotten yourself into?" She mutters to herself. 

Thankfully the cut isn't as deep as it is wide— hasn't caused any internal damage according to the diagnostic she casts. 

A simple healing charm works its magic; she watches as the porcelain of his skin winds its way together, until all that's left is the crust of his blood. 

"Accio dittany." 

The wand glows yellow, and the little glass of herbs that was tucked neat in her satchel, finds its way out— shoots its way into her hand.

She uncorks the little vile, digs some out with the pad of her index finger, and rubs the paste along the thin scar that remains; should leave the area brand new in a few days.

Now the head injury is the focal of her concern.

"Malfoy?" 

"Hmm," he replies through tight lips.

"I'm going to reverse the binding spell. If you make this hard for the either of us, I won't hesitate to recast," she speaks sternly, "I'm the one with the wand."

She looks down and studies the unfamiliar wand that's wrapped in her hand; dark, smooth and sleek like him. 

"Mhm," he replies again, voice muffled by the strain of the binds. 

She inhales, "Finite," and the wand glows red.

She feels his limbs go limp under her as the binds undo themselves from around him.

"This is fucking—," he begins.

"Do you want to make a trip to the hospital wing?" She threatens, "It's no issue to wake Madam Pomfrey at this hour. In fact—"

"Fine," he seethes, rolls his eyes. 

She pries herself away from him; stands to her feet, "Your body temperature is low— a warm bath will do you good."

He sits up slowly; palm presses into the side of his head— obvious any adrenaline he had has worn off, the pain has really set in now. 

She helps him to his feet awkwardly by grabbing him by his elbows, wraps her hand around his bicep, and guides him toward the bath— her bare feet pad crimson across the cold tile as she leads him toward the claw-footed tub. 

He takes a seat on the edge of the tub, lets his head fall into the palms of his hands while she runs warm water into it.

"You can just get in with your clothes," she blurts awkwardly after the tub has filled to a sufficient amount, "It wouldn't really matter—"

He huffs, "Don't be stupid, Granger."

Her cheeks warm. 

He uses the edge of the tub to help himself up— shrugs his shirt off until it's a small black heap on the floor. He then toes both of his shoes off; unbuckles the silver buckle on his belt, and slips his trousers off rather quickly to be in the state he's currently in. 

He's left in his boxers; and to no surprise, they're black. 

She stands there, arms crossed; watches as the water swishes around in the tub while he finishes undressing— and she doesn't move from this position until he's made himself comfortable; back rested on the side of the tub, legs stretched in front of him in the water.

He exhales as the warm water loosens his tense muscles— head lolls backward onto the brim of the tub. 

"I'm really sorry about this," she breathes. 

"Sorry about wha—"

His words are cut off by her voice, "Stupefy."

His body goes limp at the impact of the jet of red light that shoots from the wand, head falls languid onto his shoulder; eyelids flutter shut. 

She doesn't need him to be conscious for this— he'd only make it harder. 

She steps slowly toward where he's lain in the tub; both the dittany and wand are gathered into her fist. 

She sits on the edge of the tub where his back is rested; swings both of her legs over to straddle his neck— is thankful she's wearing shorts as her inner thighs brush the broad of his shoulders, leaving goosebumps trickling behind on her skin. 

She places the glass of dittany on the side of the tub, flicks her wand through the air. 

"Incendio."

And the lanterns that hang on each wall burn to life; giving the bathroom enough light for her to work with. 

She sets her wand aside; lifts his head from where it's rested sideways on his shoulder, and leans it back onto her inner thigh to get a better view of the source of blood flow. 

A few minutes of inspection, a successful diagnostic, and an abundance of healing charms, she's concluded that he's suffering a severe concussion; would explain his manic behavior— his inability to occlude certain emotions. 

She runs her fingers through the blood-ridden strands of his hair; odd to see his normally perfect locks tainted red in places. 

She separates the hair around the main source of blood— a gash that travels along his skull from the base of his head, to the crown. 

She waves her wand over the area, mumbles the incantation for healing— the split closes, but not all the way. 

Idiot, she thinks. 

This one’s too deep for a simple healing charm.

She takes a heavy breath— exhales it out dramatically. 

"Ferula," she mutters, tapping the wand on the base of the gash. 

Bandages immediately begin to conjure themselves over the area— they stretch until the gash is completely held shut mimicking makeshift butterfly stitches. 

She uses her fingers to press the edges of the reticular-shaped gauze into the back of his head, ensuring the tape is snug enough to stays put. 

He's going to need to rest for a few days until the concussion subsides— she's certain that won't be an easy task for him. 

She spends the next few moments healing the minor wounds— the damage to his knuckles, slices around his eyebrows, and the places where his lip had been split open. 

When she's done all she can do, she sets the wand aside, sinks back, let's her spine rest on the wall behind her; exhales so loudly with relief she's surprised he doesn't regain conscious. 

She lets her eyelids fall shut— is thankful for the quiet; the only sound comes from the flames flickering in the lanterns, and drops of water falling from the tub's golden faucet.

It feels good to heal— for a moment all of her problems were shoved heedlessly to the back of her mind.

She stays like this for at least fifteen minutes— his head still lolled onto her inner thigh; time is frozen until the ache of her tailbone pressing into the tub's ledge becomes too painful, and smell of his blood becomes too pungent to bare.

She lifts her torso up, reaches upward and tugs one of the freshly folded rags that's stacked neatly on the shelf above the tub down to where she sits. 

She leaves it folded into fourths; reaches down, arm brushes his side as she saturates the rag with the bow lukewarm water. 

She hesitates before doing it. 

Inhales and exhales deeply before the rag connects with his skin. She begins to sponge his temple with the cloth; watches as the blood rolls down his body in droplets, mixing with the already pink water that surrounds him. 

She continues this, pressing the rag gently into the stained-red areas on his body until they're stained no more. 

It feels odd— being alone in a washroom with Draco Malfoy's limp body before her. Odd being the one to heal his wounds. 

She's always viewed him as ice. All sharp, no soft edges. 

But his normally icy complexion is warmed in this lighting— and the way his body is positioned in the tub has his abdomen muscles flexed in a way that's almost— compelling.

Like he's real. Breakable. 

She doesn't see an ex-death-eater in this moment, despite the skull and snake that blemishes the skin of his forearm— the forearm that's in clear view, stretched out over the tub's edge— she sees someone broken, someone just as tormented by the war as she is. 

She lifts her own arm up— her scar lines up beside his tattoo in her vision. 

Their own personal reminders of the war— reminders that it's left a film of dark casted over everything. 

And for just a moment— just a mere fucking fleeting moment, she feels one less heartbeat alone.

Her eyes flutter shut— tears that had welled spill over the rims of her eyes, and she relishes the moment— in the feeling.

| A reminder that you are so loved, so important— be good to yourself, love. |


End file.
